THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS 


BY 

NELS  PEARSON 


KANSAS  CITY,  MISSOURI 
BURTON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1920,  BY 

HANNAH  PEARSON 

McPHERSON,  KANSAS 


TS 
353 


Remember  me  in  the  distance  yonder, 
I  hear  the  surging  of  the  restless  sea ; 
When  every  earthly  tie  must  break  asunder 
Amid  the  shadows  of  Eternity. 

Oh,  Thou  who  suffered, 

Thou  who  died  for  us, 

Who  heard  the  penitent  upon  the  cross, 

Give  me  the  childlike  faith  to  trust  in  Thee, 

Remember  me,  remember  me. 


CONTENTS 

The  Old  Sante  Fe  Trail  9 

The  Return 12 

A  Tale  of  Early  Days  15 

Threshing  on  the  Prairies 22 

The  Prairie  Fire  ..25 

Queen   of  Dreams 28 

Zingerlee    31 

The   Singer 32 

The^  Prairies  of  Kansas 33 

The  Maple  Tree 35 

The  Tramp   37 

The   Kansas   Song 39 

The  Sister   40 

A  Prayer 43 

Love  and  Poetry   44 

Old  Monitor  School  House  46 

Bellman ; 49 

Daisy    50 

Rest 52 

The  Shepherd  53 

The  Fishing  Trip   . .  54 

The  Doctor's  Christmas  Storr   56 

Curly 59 

A  Reverie 61 

Outcast    63 

The  Mirage   64 

Finland's  National  Song 66 

The  City  of  Suffering  69 

The  Police  Judge  72 

Neckans    Polka 74 

The    Kansas    Girl    76 

The  Mother  77 

The  Desert 79 

The  Prairie  Songster  81 


Dreaming  of  Home  84 

Dr.  C.  A.  Swenson  85 

The  Travelers 88 

Only  a  Dream   90 

To  the  Boys  of  Company  D,  McPherson,  Kansas 92 

A  Morning  Picture    94 

Kansas  97 

The  Ideal  99 

The  Aviator 101 

The   Fairy  Dance    102 

The  Peasant  Girl 105 

The  Heroes  of  the  Spanish-American  War 109 

Rose  Marie Ill 

Comrades   113 

The  City 115 

The  Flag   117 

Playmates 120 

The  Red  Cross  Nurse  122 

The  Indian  Fountain  125 

A  Soldier's  Love    128 

The  Soldier's  Farewell  130 

Oh!   Lord  Forgive  Them  All   134 

To  the  Rescue  .  ..135 


THE  OLD  SANTA  FB  TRAIL. 

The  trail  is  nearly  lost,  alas! 
Amid  the  wheat  and  corn  and  grass 
The  fields  by  hedge  divided, 
The  hand  of  greed  across  it  runs, 
And  sweeps  away  the  mark  that  once 
The  settler's  wagon  guided. 

It  plowed  a  furrow  wide  and  deep 
In  Little  river's  winding  steep, 
Down  where  the  stream  was  forded. 
Not  far  away  is  Stone  Corral 
Whose  ruins  many  a  tale  can  tell 
Of  history  unrecorded. 

It  passed  before  our  cabin  door, 
Then  onward  to  the  west  it  bore 
O'er  plain  and  hill  and  mesa 
Around  the  bare  and  rocky  steep, 
Into  the  canyon  dark  and  deep 
By  lonely  Camp  Theresa. 

O'er  cactus  field  and  withered  sage, 
Where  fiercer  yet  the  blizzards  rage, 
Its  course  is  rougher,  bleaker; 
The  whitened  bones  around  it  gleam, 
It  tells  of  many  a  shattered  dream 
And  dying  fortune-seeker. 


10  THE  OLD  SANTA  Fs  TRAIL  AND 


To  us,  poor  exiles  on  the  plain, 
It  was  the  one  connecting  chain 
With  Eastern  friends  and  kindred. 
With  longing  eyes  we  saw  the  track 
And  gladly  would  have  wandered  back 
But  stern-faced  duty  hindered. 

The  oxen  bound  for  Santa  Fe 
Came  patiently  upon  their  way 
With  wagon  heavy  freighted ; 
They  passed  the  cabin  poor  and  lone 
And  broke  the  dreary  monotone 
Of  those  who  toiled  and  waited. 

The  Indian  swept  upon  his  raid 
And  yonder  where  the  bison  strayed 
We  saw  the  buzzards  hover. 
Sometime  a  schooner  hurried  by 
With  little  children  gathered  shy 
Beneath  the  wagon  cover. 

The  sunburnt  man  who  held  the  reins 

Looked  eagerly  upon  the  plains 

A  mystery  round  them  clinging ; 

They  stretched  around  him  parched  and  hot 

Without  a  single  garden  spot 

Wherein  a  bird  was  singing. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  11 

THat  land  of  buffalo  grass  and  sage 
Unconquered  lay  for  many  an  age 
And  now  refused  surrender, 
But  O!  the  men  upon  the  field — 
They  won — see  how  the  prairies  yield ! 
The  crops  of  riches'  splendor. 

O!  deep-worn  trail  of  Santa  Fe; 
You  speak  of  those  who  passed  away 
Without  this  glorious  vision; 
Who  shared  the  suffering  and  the  toil, 
The  noon-day  heat,  the  ceaseless  moil 
But  never  the  fruition. 

Tell  of  the  victories  they  won, 
The  heroes  who  are  dead  or  gone, 
Tell  of  the  hard  privations. 
As  soft  and  low  as  vesper  chimes 
Tell  of  the  early  Kansas  times 
To  coming  generations. 


12 


THE;  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 


FT-TOE 


run  RETURN. 

Hail  and  farewell!  the  western  winds  are  blowing! 

Our  ship  is  speeding  toward  the  ocean  deep. 

In  sunset-fire  the  city  spires  are  glowing, 

The  waves  are  glittering  where  the  seagulls  sweep. 

O  Queen  of  Liberty,  who,  like  a  warden, 
Still  keeps  the  harbor,  holding  high  your  light ; 
O  Ellis  isle  and  old-time  Castle  Garden, 
You  call  to  mind  a  memory  gleaming  bright. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  13 

Long  years  ago  we  stood  in  wide-eyed  wonder 
Upon  that  shore,  a  shy  and  wistful  group. 
We  saw  the  buildings  high,  the  towers  yonder, 
We  saw  the  trolleys  rounding  curve  and  loop. 

There  was  our  mother,  youthful  still,  and  slender, 
With  little  children  clinging  round  her  knee, 
And  there  was  Father,  always  brave  and  tender, 
And  full  of  hope,  though  poor  as  poor  could  be. 

The  crowds  were  passing  with  confusing  noises, 
We  heard  a  speech  we  could  not  understand, 
But  we  were  glad;  like  music  fell  the  voices, 
This  was  our  dream,  this  was  the  promised  land. 

O  land  of  ours,  you  gave  us  higher  visions, 
Not  only  bread,  but  schools  for  high  and  low, 
You  gave  us  freedom  from  the  old  traditions ; 
You  gave  us  land  and  power  and  room  to  grow. 

Today  we're  outward  bound,  but  father,  mother 
Live  on  their  homestead  on  the  prairie  wide, 
We  have  no  land  but  this,  we  want  no  other ; 
This  is  our  land,  our  glory  and  our  pride. 


14 


THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 


Ring  out  these  words  above  the  coward's  prattle, 
Ring  out  and  drown  the  traitor's  craven  cry. 
We're  speeding  onward  to  the  field  of  battle 
To  win  for  you,  America,  or  die. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  15 

A  TALH  OF  EARLY  DAYS. 

Yes,  that's  the  Smoky  river,  there 
Where  yonder  branches  wave, 
And  that,  where  flowers  are  blooming  fair 
A  settler's  lowly  grave. 

Thus  spoke  the  man  I  chanced  to  meet 
When  I  had  lost  my  way, 
Beguiled  by  waving  fields  of  wheat 
And  flowers  fresh  and  gay. 

Far  in  the  distance  rose  the  hills 
In  smoky  vapor  dressed, 
The  birthplace  of  the  creeks  and  rills 
That  to  the  river  pressed. 

In  front  the  grass  waved  like  a  sea, 
Fanned  by  a  gentle  breeze ; 
And  o'er  us  spread  a  canopy 
Formed  by  the  giant  trees. 

Around  the  trees  the  grapevine  swung 
With  berries  that  were  green 
And  vines  with  brilliant  flowers  clung 
And  laced  their  leaves  between. 


16  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

There  at  our  feet  a  lowly  mound 
Hid  from  the  sun  that  glowed, 
And  there  deep  channeled  in  the  ground 
The  winding  river  flqwed. 

I  stood  and  wondered  who  had  died 
And  found  that  peaceful  bed, 
I  had  forgotten  all  beside 
Until  the  stranger  said, 

"Come,  friend,  the  afternoon  is  hot 
And  here's  a  shady  place, 
There  lingers  round  this  lovely  spot 
A  tale  of  early  days." 

We  walked  in  silence  side  by  side 
Up  to  a  fallen  tree 
Where  we  could  view  the  river  glide 
Swift  onward  to  the  sea. 

I  marvelled  at  the  fields  of  gold, 
The  change  of  hill  and  dell 
And  long  I  listened  while  he  told 
Of  those  who  wrought  so  well. 

"Among  the  old-time  pioneers 

That  memory  still  retains, 

There's  one  who  lived  here  many  years 

While  these  were  desert  plains. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  17 

He  used  to  walk  behind  the  plow 
With  slightly  bended  back 
And  features  stern  and  wrinkled  brow, 
They  called  him  Settler  Jack. 

The  lonely  cabin  where  he  stayed 
Was  silent  as  could  be; 
No  children  round  the  corners  played 
In  glorious  jubilee. 

But  he  had  faced  the  withering  blast 
Through  summers  hot  and  dry, 
Perhaps  the  future  "West  had  passed 
In  dreams  before  his  eyes. 

I  see  the  place  he  used  to  till, 
The  newly  broken  sod, 
The  pathway  winding  from  the  hill 
By  herds  of  buffalo  trod. 

Down  to  the  river-side  it  led, 

A  buffalo  retreat, 

Where  high  banks  jutting  overhead 

Shut  out  the  noon-day  heat. 

Our  school  was  of  the  humble  kind, 
The  window  panes  were  cracked, 
But  children  with  a  happy  mind 
Made  up  whate'er  it  lacked. 


18 


Around  if  rolled  a  sea  of  grass 
For  many  and  many  a  mile, 
A  tall  and  heavy  waving  mass 
That  told  of  fertile  soil. 

It  was  an  Indian  Summer  day 
So  beautiful  and  still, 
A  hazy  mist  of  autumn  gray 
Hung  o'er  the  distant  hill, 

The  sumac  glowed  in  red  attire 
Down  by  the  river's  brim 
And  faintly  shone  the  prairie  fire 
By  the  horizon  dim. 

Then  all  at  once  rose  in  the  West 
A  cloud  of  flashing  thunder 
With  snowy  fleece  upon  its  crest 
And  deepest  black  in  under. 

We  heard  the  hollow,  moaning  songs, 
Sung  as  the  storm  wind  came 
And  then  we  saw  the  leaping  tongues 
That  painted  heaven  in  flame. 

"The  prairie  fire"  whose  voice  was  that? 
It  echoed  through  the  school. 
"Out,  out  upon  the  buffalo  path, 
Strike  for  the  river  cool. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  19 

We  crowded  out  into  the  storm 
And  through  the  smoke  and  wrack 
We  saw  the  weather-beaten  form 
Of  lonely  Settler  Jack. 

He  bore  us  onward  in  the  blast 
Through  grasses  tall  and  rank 
And  down  the  river  side  at  last 
We  rushed  behind  the  bank. 

The  .coyotes   and   the   buffaloes 
Came  rushing  o'er  the  ground 
In  wild  confusion,  friends  and  foes, 
For  the  same  haven  bound. 

We  listened  but  we  could  not  hear 
The  sound  of  human  voice, 
The  fire  was  roaring  far  and  near, 
It  deadened  every  noise. 

And  like  a  hungry  beast  of  prey 
Upon  the  river  broke, 
Where  shielded  by  the  bank  we  lay 
Amid  the  blinding  smoke. 

It  gathered   strength  and  tried  to  leap 

Upon  the  other  side, 

But  hissing  fell  upon  the  deep, 

And  there  in  madness  died." 


20  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

Oh,  could  they  speak,  these  prairies  here, 
What  stories  they  could  tell 
Of  many  a  hardy  pioneer 
Who  slumbers  where  he  fell. 

The  callous  hand,  the  sunburned  face, 
Are  half  forgotten  now, 
The  sod  house  and  the  camping  place, 
Are  leveled  by  the  plow. 

But  sometimes  still  my  memory  turns 
Back  to  the  long  ago, 
Again  the  desert  round  me  burns 
Beneath  the  noon-day's  glow. 

Again  the  tented  wagon  train 
Is  filled  with  pioneers, 
The  conquest  of  the  mighty  plain 
Is  ringing  in  my  ears. 

Our  blankets  at  the  close  of  day 
Upon  the  plains  are  spread, 
Around  us  prairie-fires  at  play 
Gleam  in  a  garland  red. 

Again  behind  the  breaking  plows 
We  turn  the  prairie  soil, 
The  giant  of  the  desert  bows 
Before  the  sons  of  toil. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  21 

I'm  with  them  through  the  years  of  drought 
When  they  have  toiled  in  vain, 
I  feel  the  hot  winds  of  the  South 
Upon  my  cheeks  again. 

And  memories  of  the  settlers  grand 
My  heart  shall  ever  keep, 
They  labored  with  unselfish  hand, 
They  sowed  that  we  might  reap. 


22  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

THRESHING  ON  THE  PRAIRIES. 

Cloudless  is  the  morning  sky 

Stars  are  growing  dimmer, 

On  the  stubble  brown  and  dry 

Not  a  dew-drop's  glimmer. 

Willows  down  beside  the  creek 

Rise  above  the  sedges ; 

Quails  and  thrushes  gather  thick 

In  the  sheltering  hedges. 

Goldenrods  and  sunflowers  sweet 

By  the  road  side  dimple; 

Flowers  that  stand  the  burning  heat, 

Hardy,  plain  and  simple. 

On  the  road  behind  the  corn 

Conies  a  wagon's  rattler 

Breaks  the  stillness  of  the  morn, 

Rouses  up  the  cattle 

And  the  jolly  threshing  crew 

With  their  talk  and  laughter 

Swing  into  the  open  view 

Just  a  minute  after. 

Now  the  pitchers  climb  the  stack, 

See  the  smoke  is  rising  black 

From  the  engine  farther  back, 

And  the  separator-man 

Climbs  around  with  oiling-can. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  23 

In  his  whistle,  loud  and  clear, 
Blows  the  grimy  engineer, 
Wheels  and  belts  begin  to  whirr, 
Screens  and  hinges  shake  and  stir, 
Winds  are  still  and  over  all 
Straw  and  chaff  like  showers  fall 
From  the  giant  blower, 
Lower  still,  and  lower. 
Blinding  is  the  dust  and  chaff 
But  the  threshers  only  laugh ; 
Lift  the  bundles,  golden-brown, 
Pitch  them  on  the  carrier  down ; 
Like  a  stream, 
Rolling  on, 
Flash  and  gleam, 
They  are  gone. 
How  the  separator  rocks, 
Trembling  like  a  living  thing, 
Like  a  racer  in  the  ring, 
As  it  fills  the  wagon-box, 
All  it  can  hold, 
Gleaming  like  gold, 
Product  of  toil 
Fresh  from  the  soil. 
We  are  hungry,  we  are  black, 
When  we  reach  the  cooking-shack 
And  we  wash  our  hands  and  face 
Marshal  in  and  take  our  place 
On  the  benches  hard  and  bare, 


24  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

Plain,  but  plentiful  our  fare, 
Such  as  prairie  countries  yield 
From  the  garden  and  the  field. 
When  at  last  our  day  is  done, 
It  is  late,  the  evening  gone, 
And  we  stretch  our  weary  limbs 
Where  the  crickets  sing  their  hymns, 
Hay  and  blankets  are  our  bed 
And  our  lights  are  overhead. 
Peace  and  toil  our  senses  steep 
In  forgetfulness  and  sleep. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  25 

THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE. 

Though  long  ago,  that  summer  day 

In  memory  lingers  still. 

A  hazy  mist  of  autumn  gray 

Hung  o'er  the  distant  hill. 

The  sumac  glowed  in  red  attire 

Down  by  the  river's  brim 

And  faintly  shone  the  prairie  fire 

By  the  horizon  dim. 

Then  all  at  once  rose  in  the  west 

A  cloud  of  storm  and  thunder 

With  snowy  fleece  upon  its  crest 

And  deepest  black  in  under. 

We  heard  the  hollow  moaning  songs, 

Around  us,  over  head, 

We  saw  the  maddened,  leaping  tongues 

That  painted  heaven  in  red. 

The  coyote  and  the  buffalo 
Came  rushing  o'er  the  ground 
In  wild  confusion,  friend  and  foe, 
All  for  the  river  bound. 
Quick  to  the  door  the  teacher  came 
To  save  her  frightened  flock. 
Our  homeward  road  was  all  aflame, 
The  buffalo  path  we  took. 


26  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 


Down  to  the  river-side  it  led, 

A  buffalo  retreat, 

Where  high  banks  jutting  overhead 

Shut  out  the  noonday  heat. 

We  raced  through  grasses  tall  and  rank 

A  race  with  fire  and  death, 

At  last  beside  the  stream  we  sank, 

Exhausted,  out  of  breath. 

We  listened  but  we  could  not  hear 

The  sound  of  human  voice, 

The  fire  was  roaring  far  and  near, 

It  deadened  every  noise, 

And  like  a  hungry  beast  of  prey 

Upon  the  river  broke 

Where  shielded  by  the  bank  we  lay 

Amid   the  blinding   smoke. 

It  gathered  strength  and  tried  to  leap 

Upon  the  other  side 

But  hissing  fell  upon  the  deep 

And  there  in  madness  died. 

Our  home  was  gone,  the  cabin  lay 

In  embers  glowing  red. 

We  wandered  till  the  end  of  day 

Like  those  whose  hopes  have  fled. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  27 

But  father  came  and  labored  hard 

And  built  a  shelter  rude, 

And  paced,  a  sentinel  on  guard, 

In  that  vast  solitude. 

Tucked  in  the  bed  by  mother  made, 

Our  little  prayers  were  said. 

The  prairie  fires  that  round  us  played 

Gleamed  in  a  garland  red. 


28  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

QUEEN  OF  DREAMS. 

0  surely,  though  a  stranger, 
The  freedom  and  the  glow 
Of  pioneer  and  ranger 
Must  follow  where  I  go, 
For  I  was  born  'mid  splendor 
Of  prairies  rolling   free 
And  loving  hands  and  tender 
Were  those  that  sheltered  me. 

The  dancing  prairie  fire, 
The  grass  by  dew  impearled, 
The  buds  on  tree  and  brier 
Made  beautiful  my  world. 
The  dreamer's  necromancy 
Was  then  within  my  reach. 

1  sailed  the  ship  of  fancy 
To  many  a  tropic  beach. 

I  drew  from  magic  places 
The  queen  of  fairy-land 
To  tread  with  me  the  mazes 
Of  childhood,  hand  in  hand. 

0  now  as  I  review,  it, 
How  vivid  grows  the  scene; 

1  stood — before  I  knew  it, 
A  lad  of  seventeen. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  29 

And  sweet  it  was  to  listen 
To  woman  free  from  guile 
When  love  had  broken  prison 
And  beamed  in  look  and  smile. 
The  sky  has  lit  her  tapers 
For   reverie  tonight; 
Forgotten  are  my  papers, 
A  figure  glimmers  white. 

A  form  of  beauty  lingers 
A  moment  where  I  stand, 
And  precious  little  fingers 
Are  pressed  within  my  hand. 

0  come  and  let  us  wander 
Without  a  thought  of  care 
Upon  the  prairies  yonder; 
My  childhood  beacons  there. 

And  let  me  whisper  slowly 
Before  you  say  farewell, 
A  secret  sweet  and  holy, 

1  never  dared  to  tell; 
You  came  so  like  a  fairy ; 
So  like  a  queen  you  came ; 
I  met  you  on  the  prairie; 

I  heard  them  speak  your  name. 


30  THE  OLD  SANTA  Fe  TRAIL  AND 

r 

The  roses  by  the  river 
And  by  the  laughing  streams, 
They  bloomed  more  fair  than  ever 
For  you  were  Queen  of  Dreams. 
You  were  the  Love,  the  Fairy, 
My  Boyhood's  fancy  knew. 
My  vision  on  the  prairie, 
O  Sweetheart,  it  was  you. 


OTHER  POEMS  OE  THE  PLAINS  31 

ZINGHRLHH. 

It  was  I  and  Zingerlee, 
On  the  Smoky  river,  we 
Floated  where  the  water  rolled 
And  the  sunflower  dipped  her  gold. 
Beautiful  was  Zingerlee, 
Full  of  laughter,  full  of  glee. 
O  the  joy,  the  melody, 
All  alone  with  Zingerlee. 
There  was  magic  in  the  air, 
Buds  were  bursting  everywhere, 
Round  us  cooed  the  turtle-dove, 
Every  flower  spoke  of  love. 
In  the  glamour  and  the  shade 
By  the  trees  and  willows  made, 
Darling  hands  were  fondly  pressed, 
Treasured  love  at  last  confessed. 
Oh  the  lips  that  half  deny 
Ecstacy  of  love's  reply. 
Sweeter  lips  were  never  kissed, 
Lovelier  eyes  ne'er  filled  with  mist. 
Eyes  of  wonder,  eyes  of  blue, 
With  the  love-light  shining  through; 
Cheeks  as  fair  as  morning-light, 
Rosy  red  and  lily  white. 
Days  may  come  and  days  may  go 
When  the  roses  bud  and  blow, 
None  can  be  as  fair  to  me 
As  that  one  with  Zingerlee. 


32  THS  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

THE  SINGER. 

The  wild  applause  rang  loud  and  long 
In  the  theatre  filled  by  the  jubilant  throng 
But  the  singer  herself  was  cold  somehow 
And  only  replied  with  a  chilly  bow. 

She  stepped  to  her  room  with  a  heart  of  grief 
And  took  from  a  casket  a  hidden  leaf ; 
Now  she  sits  alone  in  the  silent  night 
'Mid  laurel  wreaths  and  flowers  bright. 

But  the  laurel  wreaths  and  the  flowers  gay 
Awake  in  her  heart  a  slumbering  lay. 
She  bends  her  head  and  her  tears  fall  hot 
On  the  leaves  of  an  old  forget-me-not. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  33 

THE  PRAIRIES  OF  KANSAS. 

I  am  south  of  the  river,  the  Rio  Grande, 

Around  me  are  men  in  sombreros, 

And  down  on  the  plaza  the  monuments  stand, 

Erected  for  Mexican  heroes. 

I've  camped  in  the  mountains,  there's  many  a  gem, 

I've  listened  to   Spanish  romances, 

But  today  I  am  restless,  I  care  not  for  them, 

I  long  for  the  prairies  of  Kansas. 

I'd  like  to  be  there  in  the  sweet  summer-night 

When  abloom  are  the  locust  and  callas, 

When  the  lovely  catalpas  are  dressed  all  in  white 

And  the  fireflies  are  haunting  the  hollows. 

I've  heard  the  wild  song  of  the  birds  on  the  wing, 

Where  the  surge  of  the  ocean  advances ; 

But  Oh !  for  the  tune  that  the  harvesters  sing 

On  your  wheat-covered  prairies,  O  Kansas. 

I  know  that  your  winters  are  often  unkind; 

Your  seasons  and  elements  vary, 

Sometime  in  a  fury,  relentless  and  blind, 

You  wither  the  crops  on  the  prairie, 

But  yet,  from  this  valley,  this  fairyland  wild, 

Where  near  me  the  waterfall  dances, 

I  long  for  the  places  I  knew  as  a  child, 

I  long  for  the  prairies  of  Kansas. 


34  THE;  OLD  SANTA  Fg  TRAIL  AND 

And  here,  what  a  sunset !  aglow  is  the  west 

In  colors  of  lingering  beauty. 

The  sunlight  is  gleaming  on  helmet  and  crest 

Where  Mexican  troops  are  on  duty. 

It  gleams  on  the  saddle,  on  bridle  and  stripe, 

Where  the  mustang  defiantly  prances. 

It  gleams  like  the  glory  when  wheatfields  are  ripe 

On  the  billowy  prairies  of  Kansas. 

The  soldiers  are  marching  in  front  for  review, 

The  peons,  the  mountaineers,  wiry. 

It  is  war ;  it  is  Mexico  passing  thru 

The  trials,  the  furnaces  fiery. 

The  people  in  bondage,  in  ignorance  chained, 

The  scattered  tribes  of  Caranzas, 

They  grope  for  the  blessings  that  you  have  attained, 

0  fortunate  people  of  Kansas. 

1  watch  them  go  marching  by  plaza  and  lake, 
On  their  way  to  the  barracks  proceeding, 

And  my  spirit  grows  heavy;  I  see  their  mistakes, 

I  know  it's  an  army  they're  needing, 

But  not  of  the  pattern  that  conquers  and  rules 

By  the  power  of  bayonets  and  lances, 

But  an  army  of  teachers  and  statesmen,  with  schools 

Like  those  on  the  prairies  of  Kansas. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  35 

THB  MAPLE  TRHH. 

Sometimes  when  idle  hours  are  mine 

I  pass  the  grove  of  elm  and  pine; 

The  reddening  peach  and  apricot 

And  garden  trees  are  all  forgot. 

I  seek  the  lonely  maple  tree 

Where  once  I  played  in  thoughtless  glee; 

There  comes  the  meadow  lark  again 

And  sings  its  old  familiar  strain; 

There  comes  to  me  from  early  days 

So  many  a  kind  and  friendly  face ; 

Let  fashion  call  her  worshipper 

To  ball  room  or  to  theatre, 

I  love  the  labor  and  the  stress, 

The  settler  of  the  wilderness. 

The  farmer,  unaffected,  free, 

The  home  in  its  simplicity. 

Are  you  a  friend  of  honest  worth, 

Of  strong  but  humble  thing  of  earth  ? 

Then  listen,  you  will  understand 

The  settler  of  a  barren  land. 

Our  prairie  schooners  were  headed  West, 
We  came  afar  and  we  needed  rest, 
All  day  we  looked  o'er  that  barren  plain 
For  sheltering  tree,  but  we  looked  in  vain, 
Then  all  at  once  in  the  distance  rose 
As  fair  a  tree  as  the  forest  grows; 


36  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

It  raised  to  Heaven  its  giant  form 
And  bade  defiance  to  fire  and  storm. 
The  wind  had  wakened  its  vibrant  keys, 
It  sang  victorious  melodies. 

Not  many  flowers  around  it  grew 

For  winds  were  hot  and  the  rains  were  few ; 

But  every  summer  with  matchless  grace 

Its  beauty  hallowed  that  desert  place. 

When  August  came  with  the  sultry  skies 

That  shady  spot  was  a  paradise. 

There  came  the  farmer  to  cool  his  brow, 

The  oxen  weary  with  load  and  plow, 

The  traveler  faint  from  the  burning  sun. 

It  gave  its  shelter  to  every  one, 

That  day  we  knew  what  the  soil  could  do, 

And  courage  sprang  in  our  hearts  anew. 

Oh  endless  prairie !  Oh  giant  tree ! 
More  beautiful  than  you  used  to  be, 
Today  you  show  us  the  wondrous  change 
The  settler  wrought  over  field  and  range. 
I  too  have  changed,  but  the  change  in  me, 
Is  not  of  Summer,  Oh !  giant  tree, 
I  am  no  longer  the  man  who  faced 
The  wilderness  where  the  bison  grazed, 
I  bear  the  marks  of  the  blizzard's  rage 
The  labor  hard  and  the  hand  of  age, 
But  yet,  again  to  the  bugle  call, 
My  soul  would  answer  and  face  it  all, 
To  break  the  way  and  to  toil  and  bless 
The  barren  plain  and  the  wilderness. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  37 

THE  TRAMP. 

I  beg  and  I  wander, 

The  money  I  squander 
For  whiskey  I  buy  on  the  road, 

Then  onward  I  stumble 

And  drink  till  I  tumble 
Asleep  in  the  ditch  with  my  load. 

My  senses  awaken, 

The  odor  of  bacon 
Is  sweet  to  a  poor  hungry  wretch. 

I  wander  unsteady 

Where  dinner  is  ready 
And   children   come  home   on  the   stretch. 

I  dream  of  a  woman, 

For  still  I  am  human, 
A  cottage,  a  dinner  for  me, 

With  maple  and  cherry 

And  children  so  merry 
And  baby  to  climb  on  my  knee. 

And  meekly  I  enter 

The  garden  and  venture 
To  the  porch  by  the  ivy  hung  o'er; 

For  the  prayer  I  utter 

The  bread  and  the  butter 
They  pass  through  the  half  open  door. 


38  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

The  children  have  hidden, 

The  house  is  forbidden, 
I  turn  to  the  highway  again, 

All  withered  and  wizen 

I  long  for  the  prison, 
The  rock  pile,  the  ball  and  the  chain. 

I  have  not  a  penny 

Nor  friends  have  I  any, 
I  have  not  a  land  of  my  own. 

In  a  car  full  of  lumber 

Half  frozen  I  slumber 
With  a  wretch  like  myself,  or  alone. 


OTHER  POEMS  of  THE  PLAINS  39 

THE  KANSAS  SONG. 
To  Kansas  we  came  and  we  staked  out  our  claim, 
We  lived  through  the  heat  and  the  drought, 
We  built  of  the  sod  and  we  learned  how  to  plod 
In  the  gales  of  the  withering  South. 
For  miles  o'er  the  plains,  o'er  the  hills  up  and  down 
We  carted  our  wheat  and  our  corn  to  the  town. 
But  here's  to  Kansas,  Hurrah! 
A  song  to  the  golden  West. 
Oh!  here's  to  Kansas,  Hurrah!  hurrah! 
For  Kansas  we  love  the  best. 
But  now  you  must  know  that  we  are  not  so  slow, 
We're  building  of  brick  and  of  steel, 
On  the  prairie  the  song  of  the  reaper  is  heard 
And  the  hum  of  the  automobile. 
Our  cities  are  thriving,  our  cities  are  fair 
And  towering  high  in  the  sunshine  and  air. 
And  here's  to  Kansas,  Hurrah! 
A  song  to  the  golden  West, 
Oh,  here's  to  Kansas,  hurrah !  hurrah ! 
For  Kansas  we  love  the  best. 
The  girl  of  the  West  by  the  breezes  caressed, 
Her  cheeks  with  the  roses  aglow — 
Her  smile  like  the  sunshine  to  the  pioneer  homes, 
Her  voice  like  a  melody  low. 
The  girl  of  the  city,  the  girl  of  the  farm, 
Who  caught  from  the  prairie  its  mystical  charm, 
To  the  Kansas  girl,  hurrah ! 
A  song  to  the  girl  of  the  West, 
To  the  Kansas  girl,  hurrah !  hurrah ! 
To  the  maiden  we  love  the  best. 


40  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

THH  SISTER. 

Through  the  open  window  straying, 
Gentle  winds  are  softly  playing 

In  the  curtained  room; 
To  the  sick  a  message  bringing 
Of  the  birds  in  rapture  singing 

And  the  flowers  in  bloom. 

But  so  slowly  goes  the  minute 
In  a  room  with  sickness  in  it, 

Hark!  a  step  is  on  the  stair; 
And  all  eyes  now  animated 
Beam  as  if  they  long  had  waited 

For  a  loved  one  there. 

She  is  coming;  see  her  enter 
Fair  as  if  an  angel  sent  her 

Down  from  Paradise; 
Maiden  with  the  radiant  features 
Lovliest  of  mortal  creatures 

In  the  sufferer's  eyes. 

Once  she  floated  animated 
In  the  dance,  intoxicated 

By  life's  selfish  mirth. 
Every  wish  from  her  was  granted 
In  a  land  by  wealth  enchanted 

And  by  noble  birth. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  41 

But  she  heard,  that,  far  beneath  her 
Down  where  only  grief  would  meet  her 

In  the  city's  strife, 
Human  beings  in  misery  wasted 
And  the  pleasures  never  tasted 

Of  her  joyous  life. 

And  it  touched  with  deepest  feeling- 
All  her  soul  the  love  revealing 

That  so  long  was  hid; 
Now  she  labors  on  unceasing 
Always  pain  and  sorrow  easing 

As  her  Saviour  did. 

Eager  eyes  for  her  are  gazing 
Where  the  dazzling  lights  are  blazing 

In  the  festive  halls ; 
For  they  miss  the  queenly  beauty 
Now  in  humble  paths  of  duty 

Where  her  Master  calls. 

There  her  courage  does  not  leave  her 
E'en  though  battling  with  the  fever 

In  the  poisonous  air; 
Tenderly  her  fellow  mortals 
Taking  from  death's  open  portals 

With  her  skillful  care. 


42  THE;  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

She  beholds  with  rapture  burning 
Roses  to  the  cheeks  returning 

Beauteous  as  before; 
But  sometime  the  soul  is  beating 
'Gainst  the  bars  and  swiftly  fleeting 

To  the  mystic  shore. 

Then  her  voice  so  full  of  pity 
Tells  of  the  Eternal  City 

And  the  Saviour's  power. 
Oh,  the  thanks  we  can  not  measure 
Speaks  to  her  in  farewell  pressure 

In  the  parting  hour. 

For  her  work  of  love  untiring 
For  the  works  she  spoke  inspiring 

Peace  and  heavenly  trust, 
When  the  star  of  hope  was  hidden 
And  the  soul  in  paths  forbidden 

Sank  into  the  dust. 

What  are  all  the  earthly  treasures 
And  the  shallow  fleeting  pleasures 

To  the  joy  she  feels? 
For  an  angel  bright  and  holy 
Hovers  o'er  the  maiden  lowly 

Where  in  prayer  she  kneels. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  43 

A  PRAYHR. 

Let  the  waves  of  music  roll 
To  the  God  of  love,  my  soul, 
Lift  thy  voice  in  song  and  prayer 
For  His  love  and  tender  care. 

Lord,  we  turn  to  Thee  in  praise 
For  Thy  all  abounding  grace 
'Twas  Thy  hand  that  bore  us  on 
When  our  little  strength  was  gone. 

Twas  Thy  word  that  cheered  and  gave 
Faith  and  hope  beyond  the  grave. 
Stay  with  us,  oh  tender  Guide 
Till  the  shades  of  eventide. 

Praise  Him  for  to  earth  He  came 
And  His  love  is  still  the  same, 
E'en  misfortune,  we  shall  find 
Comes  in  love,  for  He  is  kind. 

When  our  earthly  days  are  past 
Let  us  come  to  Thee  at  last 
Numbered  with  the  angel  throng 
Praising  Thee  in  joyful  song. 


44  THE;  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

LOVH  AND  POETRY. 
A  Paraphrase  from  the  Swedish  of  Braun. 

I,  too,  have  loved  in  my  youthful  prime 
And  written  boldly  love's  silly  rhyme. 
I  loved  a  beauty  of  modern  times, 
A  little  angel  from  fairy  climes, 
And  flowery  phrases  from  fancy's  land 
I  gave  to  her  with  a  liberal  hand. 

The  art  of  pleasing  she  knew  full  well ; 

My  heart  was  touched  and  of  course  I  fell. 

There  was  a  beauty  within  her  eyes 

That  seemed  to  lovers  a  paradise. 

That  I  was  captured,  now  do  not  wonder 

For  wiser  mortals  have  made  this  blunder, 

And  how  it  happened?     I  do  not  know  it, 

But  this  I  know,  I  became  a  poet. 

The  burning  deserts,  the  naked  mountains 

My  fancy  clothed  with  woods  and  fountains. 

A  brighter  sun  from  the  heaven  shone, 

The  Queen  of  Night  had  much  fairer  grown, 

The  stars  above  possessed  magic  powers, 

The  earth  was  decked  in  the  fairest  flowers. 

On  every  flower,  on  every  briar, 

I  breathed  forth  my  poetic  fire. 

My  fancy  pictured  a  cottage  lonely 

Where  I  should  live  with  my  darling  only. 


OTHER  POEMS  of  THE  PLAINS  45 

In  every  mortal  I  saw  a  friend. 

To  love's  dominion  there  was  no  end. 

I  loved  in  Eden  'mid  rarest  flowers, 

I  courted  muses  in  charming  bowers ; 

I  felt  the  touch  of  the  poet's  ire 

And  rhyme  I  wrote  to  my  heart's  desire. 

The  happiest  mortal  myself  I  thought 

When  she  my  verses  with  kisses  bought. 

O,  when  that  vision  of  earthly  charm 

Had  fled  to  me  with  her  open  arms, 

With  tearful  eyes,  with  a  sigh  and  kiss 

Thou  youthful  folly  wert  still  my  bliss ; 

I  ne'er  can  harbor  regret  of  thee, 

On  earth  a  heaven  thou  gavest  me; 

But  tender  notes  from  my  harp  are  straying 

And  I  forgot  I  was  only  playing. 

Well,  her  fond  love  died  away  with  time 

And   I  deserted  in  turn  my  rhyme. 

All  things  the  muses  had  but  engrossed, 

I  saw  how  little  that  I  had  lost, 

And  yet  I  wept  when  my  Eden  fair 

Dissolved  away  into  empty  air. 

Her  many  promises  still  I  knew, 

Her  beauty  lingered  in  memory  too ; 

But  I  rejoice  that  erasing  time 

Has  done  away  with  my  love  and  rhyme. 


46  THS  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

OLD  MONITOR  SCHOOL  HOUSE. 

George  Osgood,  take  your  fiddle 
And  play  a  mournful  air. 
My  heart  is  full  of  care. 
This  world  is  like  a  riddle 
And  sometimes  like  a  dirge; 
Play,  brother  George. 
This  school  house,  you  remember, 
So  oft  with  maidens  full, 
Is  gloomy  as  December 
And  twice  as  dull. 

Ah,  once  the  old  time  benches 

Were  piled  out  of  the  way — 

Go  on  and  play ; 

There's  nothing  here  that  quenches 

The  thirst  that  made  you  stop. 

No,  not  a  drop. 

Yes,  here  the  youth  assembled 

And  danced  till  break  of  day 

And  all  the  rafters  trembled 

So  merry  was  the  play. 

Those  chandeliers  forsaken 
Where  now  the  swallows  build 
The  room  with  splendor  filled ; 
O,  how  the  scenes  awaken 
And  crowd  at  memory's  door — 
Play  nothing  more. 


OTHER  POEMS  OE  THE  PLAINS  47 

George  Osgood  stopped  his  playing 
And  from  the  mossy  stone 
Arose  in  hurry,  saying, 
"I'll  leave  you  here  alone." 

Alone  I  sat  and  pondered 
Upon  the  dewy  ground 
When,  lo !  I  heard  a  sound ; 
I  started  up  and  wondered, 
For  through  the  open  door 
I  heard  the  music  pour, 
I  saw  the  chandeliers 
Ablaze  with  dazzling  light 
And  stalwart  pioneers 
Came  riding  through  the  night. 

What  spells  are  these  that  bind  me 

'Mid  scenes  of  long  ago 

And  faces  that  I  know? 

"The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me" 

Rings  in  my  startled  ear, 

So  loud  and  clear, 

I  heard  Jim  Redfern  calling, 

"Now,  ready,  balance  all." 

See  how  the  mortar's  falling 

Down  from  the  shaking  wall ! 


48  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 


My  eyes  behold  no  riches, 
See  yonder  rustic  youth 
Adown  the  center  skoot; 
A  cotton  shirt  and  breeches 
Is  all  that  he  can  boast, 
And  yet  he  swings  the  most. 
O,  here  are  bonnie  lasses 
Within  these  lowly  walls 
And  beauty  that  surpasses 
The  Eastern   fashion  balls. 

I  love  the  art  of  dancing 
And  asked  the  nearest  girl 
If  she  would  take  a  whirl, 
When,  lo !  the  scene  entrancing 
Grew  dim  before  my  sight 
And  vanished  in  the  night. 
George  Osgood  with  his  fiddle 
And  all  the  joyous  throng, 
Jim  Redfern  in  the  middle, 
Into  the  darkness  swung. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  49 

BELLMAN. 
(From  the  Swedish  of  Tegner.) 

Make  room,  make  room,  another  poet's  coming. 

The  joyous  Bacchus  of  the  icy  North, 

Hear  how  he  jokes  and  hear  him  softly  humming 

A  song  to  nymphs  that  round  about  him  sport. 

But  Oh,  his  joys  are  not  amid  the  glasses, 

Not  in  the  idylls  he  has  scattered  round. 

His  drunken  eye  to  loftier  beauty  passes 

As  pensive  as  the  Muse  on  high  Parnassus, 

A  poet's  grief  to  rosy  covers  bound. 

The  greatest  poet  of  the  North,  O  sages, 

Lies  slumbering  here  beneath  your  oaken  trees, 

His  song  shall  last  through  all  the  coming  ages, 

There  is  no  other  land  with  songs  like  these ; 

A  song,  a  lyric,  yet  it  breaks  the  tether 

Of  all  the  rules  of  art,  so  free  it  runs; 

As  if  on  Mount  Olympus  he  had  met  her 

And  half  unconscious  tripped  a  dance  together 

With  Poetry  and  Music  all  at  once. 


50  THE;  Ou>  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

DAISY. 

We  called  her  "Daisy"  for  her  face 
Had  something  of  that  flower's  grace 
And  something  of  the  loveliness 
Of  hawthorn  buds  who  come  to  bless 
The  lonely  range. 

One  night  her  cheek  grew  pale  and  chill, 
The  cabin  was  so  still,  so  still, 
The   wandering  coyote's   dismal  howl, 
The  hooting  of  the  prairie  owl 
Sounded  so  strange. 

"She's  dying;"  no — it  was  not  death, 
More  even  came  her  fevered  breath — 
She  slept — how  glad — how  glad  we  were, 
We  stood  and  hardly  dared  to  stir 
Beside  her  bed. 

We  gathered  round  her  bed  again, 
We  knew  that  she  was  better  then, 
Her  face  appeared  so  calm  and  sweet 
And  from  her  cheek  the  fever  heat 
At  last  had  fled. 


OTHER  POEMS  otf  THE  PLAINS  51 

She  was  so  fair,  so  like  a  saint, 
A  maiden  such  as  dreamers  paint; 
Her  soul  had  seen  the  land  of  flowers 
That  lay  too  far  for  eyes  like  ours 
With  vision  dim. 

When   joyfully  the  sun  arose 
We  took  her  from  the  cabin  close, 
We  made  her  bed  beneath  the  tree 
Where  the  birds  sang  their  melody 
And  morning  hymn. 

So  tenderly  we  sheltered  her 

In  softest  bed  of  buffalo  fur. 

We  were  not  blessed  with  riches  then 

But  Daisy  was  our  own  again, 

We  asked  no  more. 

The  wind  came  to  our  breath  like  wine 
From  cottonwood  and  scattered  pine, 
More  beautiful  the  prairie  seemed 
And  brighter  lights  in  heaven  gleamed 
When  day  was  o'er. 


52  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

RBST. 

Softly  the  evening  twilight 

Falls  over  hill  and  plain, 

Down  through  the  garret  skylight, 

Down  through  the  tinted  pane. 

Nature  reposes. 

Still  is  the  forest  green, 

Still  are  the  garden  roses, 

Resting  serene. 

Hearts  that  are  almost  breaking 

Over  the  trials  met, 

Brows  that  are  tired  and  aching 

Sleep  and   forget. 

Strength  from  the  bounteous  Giver 

Comes  with  the  morning  light, 

Eyes  where  the  tear-drops  quiver, 

Close  for  tonight. 

You  who  are  torn  asunder, 
Struck  by  the  hand  of  fate, 
Meet  in  the  dreamland  yonder, 
Slumber  unlocks  the  gate. 
Lovers  departed, 
Come  to  that  garden  fair, 
Friends  who  are  tender-hearted 
Gladden   you   there. 


OTHER  POEMS  OE  THE  PLAINS  53 

Hushed  are  the  jarring  noises, 
Labor  and  tumult  cease, 
Softly  the  evening  voices 
Call  you  to  rest  and  peace. 
Nature  reposes, 
Still  is  the  forest  green, 
Still  are  the  garden  roses, 
Resting  serene. 


THE,  SHHPHHRD. 

He  came  for  our  redemption  sent, 

And  mercy  following  where  He  went 

Shall  nevermore  be  hidden, 

Our  Shepherd  He  will  ever  be 

That  we  may  follow  glad  and  free 

And  do  what  He  has  bidden. 

Upward,  onward 

Till  the  morrow 

Free  from  sorrow 

When  we  gather 

In  His  image  round  the  Father. 


54  THE  OivD  SANTA  FE  TRAII,  AND 

THE  FISHING  TRIP. 

From  the  Swedish  of  Bellman. 
Up,  Ammaryllis,  awaken,  my  lily 
The  weather  is  stilly, 
Cool  the  air, 
The  rainbow  stretches 
O'er  heav'n  and  sketches 
For  saints  and  wretches 
Pictures  rare; 

All  the  birds  of  night  their  flight  have  taken 
Neptune  sits  upon  the  wave  forsaken, 
Ammaryllis  dear,  you  must  awaken, 
Slumber  no  longer,  O  eyelids  fair. 

Here  is  our  shallop,  the  fishpoles  are  in  it, 

Come  now  this  minute 

Do  not  wait ; 

Hide  your  long  tresses 

From  Eol's  caresses 

And  'mid  the  watercresses 

We'll  set  our  bait. 

Ammaryllis,  see  how  clear  the  air  is 

Every  island  in  its  beauty  varies, 

'Mid  the  sirens  and  the  water  fairies 

We'll  paddle  around  till  the  hour  is  late. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  55 

Where  are  the  hooks  and  the  nets  we  were  mak 
ing? 

Daylight  is  breaking, 
Look  at  the  sky ; 
O  Ammaryllis, 
Sweeter  than  Phyllis 
Surely  your  will  is 
Not  to  deny. 

Let  us  paddle  where  the  sea-gull  hovers 
Or  beneath  the  island's  leafy  covers 
Where  we  first  found  out  that  we  were  lovers 
When  Thirsis  so  angrily  hurried  by. 

Step  in  the  shallop,  singing  and  sailing, 

Love  is  prevailing  in  our  breast 

Aeol  is  jealous, 

He  grumbles  and  bellows 

Perhaps  he  would  tell  us 

"Here  is  no  rest," 

Or  perhaps  it  is  his  tempest  hollow 

But  I  care  not,  with  my  dear  I  follow 

O'er  the  water,  be  it  deep  or  shallow; 

Mock  me,  ye  sirens  by  billows  caressed. 


I  was  studying  and  the  fact  is, 

Used  my  spare  time  gaining  practice 

'Mong  the  poorest  poor. 

I  had  followed  without  speaking, 

Up  a  stairway,  dark  and  creaking 

To  a  tenement  floor. 

Far  below  me  swung  the  trolley, 
Building  rose  across  the  alley, 
Higher  still  and  higher; 
Dim  and  distant  looked  the  people, 
And  the  far  cathedral  steeple 
Caught  the  sunset's  fire. 

But  around  me  misery  brooded, 
Human  beings,  poor,  deluded, 
Crowded  everywhere. 
O,  I  saw  them  fever  stricken, 
Till  my  soul  began  to  sicken 
In  a  mute  despair. 

By  the  sick  where  she'd  been  kneeling 
Rose  a  girl  with  eyes  appealing, 
And  her  welcome  smiled; 
I  had  come  for  gain  and  glory, 
She  to  tell  the  wondrous  story 
Of  the  Bethlehem  Child. 


OTHER  POEMS  OP  THE  PLAINS 

Once  she  floated  animated 

In  the  dance,  intoxicated 

By  life's  thoughtless  mirth; 

Every  wish  and  prayer  was  granted, 

In  a  home  that  seemed  enchanted 

By  the  wealth  of  earth. 

Did  she  find  the  nectar  bitter? 
Did  she  tire  of  gold  and  glitter 
And  the  empty  show? 
O  I  know  not  but  I  found  her, 
With  the  fever  struck  around  her, 
In  the  slums  below. 

And  she  labored  for  the  masses, 
For  the  poor,  the  lower  classes 
As  a  simple  nurse. 

Where  the  smoke  fell  thick  and  thicker, 
And  the  gambling  and  the  liquor 
Cast  a  withering  curse. 

O  the  battle  and  the  crisis, 

When  the  fever  falls  and  rises, 

In  the  time  of  dread ; 

When  the  midnight  hour  comes  stealing, 

And  the  shadows  on  the  ceiling 

Are  the  loved  and  dead. 


58  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

Then  she  comes,  the  courage-giver, 
With  her  smile  as  kind  as  ever; 
With  her  tender  care. 
And  the  fluttering  pulse  grows  stronger 
And  the  eyes  are  closed  no  longer 
In  a  mute  despair. 

O  how  great  the  work  and  holy, 
Thus  to  labor  for  the  lowly, 
To  uplift,  inspire ; 
Like  a  star  her  memory  lingers, 
Like  a  song  sung  by  the  singers 
Of  an  angel  choir. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  59 

CURLY. 

He  came  in  rain  and  vapor 
To  harvest  for  my  Dad, 
A  shirt  wrapped  up  in  paper, 
Was  all  the  grip  he  had. 

His  hair  was  red  and  curly 
He  couldn't  milk  of  course, 
And  never  got  up  early 
To  help  us  do  the  chores. 

He  talked  about  Andoover 
Where  he'd  been  shocking  wheat. 
T would  break  the  heart  of  Hoover 
To  see  that  fellow  eat. 

But  Dad  without  complaining 
Said,  "Let  him  have  the  grub, 
Whene'er  it  lets  up  raining 
We'll  need  him  on  the  job." 

I  never  saw  such  weather; 
The  fields  were  like  a  flood, 
We  mired  the  loads  and  header 
And  left  them  in  the  mud. 


60  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

Then  we  sat  down  and  waited 
Until  the  fields  should  dry. 
To  cut,  as  I  have  stated, 
There  was  no  use  to  try. 

At  last  the  heavens  lifted, 
A  wind  was  blowing  fair, 
The  clouds  above  us  drifted 
And  vanished  in  the  air. 

That  evening  Dad  told  Curly, 
"Tomorrow  we  shall  cut, 
You'll  have  to  get  up  early, 
Don't  let  that  be  forgot" 

Next  morning  bright  and  early 
We  mobilized  our  crew, 
But  where,  O  where  was  Curly? 
He  came  not  for  review. 

He  must  have  hit  the  trail 
And  never  said  good-bye, 
For  Dad  began  to  rail 
At  harvest  hands — O  my! 

We  should  have  been  out  early 
To  head  and  load  and  stack, 
But  where,  O  where  was  Curly 
And  when  would  he  come  back? 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  61 


By  the  river,  by  the  river, 
Where  the  slender  aspens  quiver 

Over  grass  and  flowers; 
Where  the  elm  and  oak  are  growing 
And  their  giant  shadows  throwing, 

Forming  shady  bowers. 

There's  a  pathway  where  I  wander 
In  sweet  solitude  and  ponder, 

'Neath  the  evening  sky. 
There  the  birds  are  singing  o'er  me, 
There  a  vision  comes  before  me 

From  the  sunny  days  gone  by. 

O  I  know  I  can  not  paint  her, 
For  her  form  is  always  fainter 

When  portrayed  by  tongue  or  pen, 
Than  when  sporting  o'er  the  prairie 
Slender,  graceful  as  a  fairy 

Could  you  but  have  seen  her  then. 

Or  when  questions  were  debated, 
When  her  form  was  animated, 

All  her  soul  within  her  eyes; 
For  we  met  sometimes  at  college 
And  enlightened  with  our  knowledge 

Any  subject  'neath  the  skies. 


62  THE  OLD  SANTA  Fs  TRAIL  AND 

'  O,  ye  women  politicians, 
And  ye  wire-pulling  magicians, 

Talking  silver,  talking  gold; 
With  a  trouble  that  increases 
And  a  stock  that  never  ceases, 

Of  the  schemes  that  you  unfold. 

Keep  your  speeches  flowery  laden, 
Let  me  listen  to  this  maiden 

With  her  winning  smile; 
Campaign  speeches  chestnut  seasoned, 
Can  not  rival  lips  that  reasoned, 

Free  from  all  your  guile. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  63 

OUTCAST. 

I  spoke  so  harshly  yestermorn 
'Twas  but  a  beggar  in  the  street, 
A  tramp,  a  beggar,  tired,  forlorn 
And  ragged,  that  I  chanced  to  meet. 

He  asked  for  money  or  for  bread, 
And  stood  there  shivering  at  my  side ; 
I  questioned  something  that  he  said, 
He  answered,  but  I  knew  he  lied. 

What  right  had  I  to  question  him? 
I,  educated,  housed  and  fed ; 
He  with  his  vision  blurred  and  dim, 
His  body  starved,  his  soul  half  dead. 

And  then  I  thought  of  Magdalene, 
I  thought  of  those  who  came  to  Christ, 
Blind  and  despised,  sinful,  unclean, 
And  how  the  people  were  surprised. 

When  these  were  healed  and  went  away 
With  new  ambition,  kind  and  strong, 
I  felt  ashamed,  I  could  but  pray! 
"Forgive  me,  Lord,  for  I  was  wrong." 


64  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

THE  MIRAGE. 

Out  from  the  desert's  scorching  heat 
The  traveler  sought  a  cool  retreat ; 
And  lo !  as  by  a  magic  spell 
A  lake  arose,  and  shadows  fell 
Upon  its  banks  from  date  and  palm — 
But  round  it  lay  the  desert  calm. 
The  waves  by  gentle  breezes  fanned, 
Were  beating  slowly  on  the  strand; 
He  saw  the  lake  from  shore  to  shore, 
But  not  a  boat  the  billows  bore ; 
He  saw  the  trees  that  round  it  made 
A  circle  of  inviting  shade. 
But  not  a  cottage  met  his  eye; 
He  called ;  but  no  one  gave  reply 
Save  Echo,  that  his  voice  pursued 
Into  the  boundless  solitude. 
Strange !  but  there  was  not  e'en  a  sign 
Of  people  in  that  spot  divine. 
So  bounteously  by  nature  blest ! 
A  garden  where  the  tired  may  rest, 
Like  those  the  Babylonian  Queen 
Suspended  earth  and  heav'n  between; 
But  he  would  seek  that  garden  fair, 
And  rest  at  least  a  moment  there. 
Then  from  the  beaten  path  he  turned 
Out  where  the  glistening  desert  burned; 
The  sun  in  heaven  seemed  to  frown, 
And  pour  its  flood  in  anger  down. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  65 

There  were  no  clouds  to  hide  it  now — 
There  were  no  winds  to  cool  his  brow ; 
But  on  he  pressed  with  burning  feet. 
Now  it  was  near,  the  waters  sweet, 
And  now  again  it  seemed  afar — 
But  beckoning,  like  a  friendly  star. 
Was  that  a  skull  upon  the  sand  ? 
Was  that  a  skeleton's  bony  hand  ? 
That  seemed  to  warn  and  wave  him  back 
To  seek  again  the  beaten  track ! 
In  vain!  In  vain!  Bewildered,  lost, 
He  saw  but  where  the  billows  tossed 
Their  silver  spray  upon  the  beach 
So  clear  and  cool,  but  out  of  reach. 
It  sparkled  'neath  the  foliage  dense, 
And  made  his  thirst  grow  more  intense. 
Still  fiercer  grew  the  noonday  sun — 
His  courage  now,  was  almost  gone ; 
His  giant  strength  was  failing  fast, 
And  on  the  sand  he  sank,  at  last! 
But  still  his  overheated  brain 
An  Eden  pictured  on  the  plain — 
So  near  that  he  could  hear  the  swell 
Of  billows  as  they  rose  and  fell. 
He  tried  to  plunge  into  the  tide, 
But  fainted  on  the  sand  and  died. 


66  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

FINLAND'S  NATIONAL  SONG. 

Our  land,  our  land,  our  native  land, 
O  send  the  echoes  forth! 
No  mountain  rising  high  and  grand, 
No  valleys  fair,  no  wave-beat  strand, 
More  dear  than  the  beloved  North, 
Our  father's  home  on  earth. 

Our  land  is  poor  and  dark  our  sky 
To  those  who  seek  for  gold. 
A  stranger  passes  proudly  by, 
But  O,  we  love  the  Northland  high ! 
In  towering  cliff,  in  lake  and  wold, 
A  gold-land  we  behold. 

We  love  our  river's  mighty  rush, 
Our  brooklets  dancing  light, 
Our  woodland's  moan  at  even-hush, 
Our  starry  night,  our  sunset-blush, 
All,  all  that  here  in  song  and  sight 
Has  made  our  life  so  bright. 

With  pen  and  plow  our  fathers  toiled 
And  here  they  slumber  sweet; 
Here,  when  the  war  was  raging  wild, 
When  fickle  fortune  frowned  or  smiled, 
Through  victory,  suffering  and  defeat, 
The  heart  of  Finland  beat. 


OTHER  POEMS  otf  THE  PLAINS  67 

And  who  shall  count  her  battles  o'er, 
The  weary  march  recall, 
The  conflict  and  the  cannon's  roar, 
The  frost  that  came  and  famine  bore? 
How  true  her  sons  to  fight  and  fall, 
Or  patient  bear  it  all. 

O,  it  was  here  they  fought  and  bled 
And  held  the  foe  at  bay. 
Here  they  rejoiced  when  famine  fled 
And  heaven's  bounty  came  instead, 
And  here  they  built  and  paved  the  way, 
Long,  long  before  our  day. 

Now,  to  the  farm,  the  humble  cot, 
Content  we  come  and  go; 
Whate'er  misfortune  be  our  lot, 
A  land,  a  native  land  we've  got. 
What  greater  gift  can  heaven  bestow 
To  keep  our  hearts  aglow? 

And  here,  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 

When  come  the  summer  skies, 

We  point  to  wood  and  lake  and  beach 

And  say  with  heart  too  full  for  speech : 

"It  is  our  native  land  that  lies 

So  fair  before  our  eyes." 


68  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

And  though  we  left,  for  regions  bound 
'Mid  gold-clouds  far  away, 
And  though  we  danced  a  starry-round 
Where  neither  tear  nor  sigh  were  found ; 
To  this  poor  land,  both  night  and  day, 
Our  longing  thoughts  would  stray. 

O  Northland  of  a  thousand  lakes, 
Of  faith  and  minstrelsy, 
Our  infant  eye  to  thee  awakes, 
Our  dust  thy  bosom  kindly  takes. 
O  Motherland  be  glad  and  free, 
Nor  blush  for  poverty. 

Thy  future  in  the  bud  confined 
Shall  break  its  prison  cell, 
And  in  our  true  affection  find 
A  beauty  of  the  royal  kind; 
Then  jubilant  our  song  shall  swell 
And  greater  tidings  tell. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  69 

THE  CITY  OF  SUFFERING. 

O  that  city,  have  you  seen  it? 
Flowers  and  maple  trees  between  it 
And  the  thoroughfare. 
Weary  mortals,  tempest  driven 
Like  a  ship,  all  wrecked  and  riven, 
Find  a  haven  there. 

City  of  the  pallid  faces, 

Full  of  peaceful  resting  places, 

Flowers  upon  the  tinted  shelf. 

Just  a  hospital  in  practice, 

But  you  feel  it,  and  the  fact  is, 

'Tis  a  city  in  itself. 

Have  you  traveled  through  that  city? 
Greater,  then,  must  be  your  pity, 
Warmer  must  your  hand-clasp  be. 
Not  for  you  are  pride  and  splendor 
But  a  feeling  deep  and  tender 
For  the  suffering  ones  you  see. 

Far  below  it  swings  the  trolley, 
Buildings  rise  across  the  alley 
Higher  still  and  higher; 
Dim  and  distant  look  the  people 
And  the  far  cathedral  steeple 
Gleams  with  sunset  fire. 


70  THE  OLD  SANTA  F£  TRAIL  AND 

Soft  and  low,  her  footsteps  hushing, 
O'er  the  carpets  tufted  cushion, 
On  her  round  the  sister  comes, 
Turns  the  pillow,  smooths  the  cover 
For  some  one  just  carried  over, 
Rescued  from  the  city  slums. 

Close  beside  him  on  the  dresser, 
Are  the  flowers  she  brought,  God  bless  her, 
"Just  to  freshen  up  the  room." 
Fragrant  flowers,  smelling  sweeter 
Mid  the  lingering  fumes  of  ether 
Than  in  gardens  all  abloom. 

O,  the  battle  and  the  crisis 

When  the  fever  falls  and  rises 

In  the  time  of  dread; 

When  the  midnight  hour  comes  stealing 

And  the  shadows  on  the  ceiling 

Are  the  loved  and  dead. 

Then  she  comes,  the  courage-giver, 

With  her  smile  as  kind  as  ever, 

With  her  tender  care, 

And  the  fluttering  pulse  grows  stronger 

And  the  eyes  are  closed  no  longer 

In  a  mute  despair. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  71 

O,  how  great  the  work  and  holy 
Thus  to  labor  for  the  lowly, 
To  uplift,  inspire. 
Fondly  still,  the  memory  lingers 
Like  a  song  sung  by  the  singers 
Of  an  angel  choir. 


72  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

THE  POLICE  JUDGE. 

I  long  for  flowers  growing 

O'er  meadow,  hill  and  dale ; 

For  wind  through  hedges  blowing. 

I  long  for  thrush  and  quail, 

The  hawks  that  overawe  them 

I  even  long  to  meet, 

Although  I  seldom  see  them, 

My  home  is  on  the  street. 

Through  windows  mud  bespattered 
The  glaring  sunlight  falls, — 
The  paper  torn  and  tattered 
Hangs  on  my  office  walls. 
No  painting  by  the  masters, 
No  landscape  of  De  Vouges, 
But  tales  of  grim  disasters 
And  gallery  of  rogues. 

O,  sweet  it  is  to  listen, 
To  women  free  from  guile 
When  eyes  with  love  light  glisten 
And  faces  beam  and  smile, 
But  those  who  tower  o'er  me 
To  such  a  view  are  blind, 
The  women  brought  before  me 
Are  not  the  virtuous  kind. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  73 

The  poet's  necromancy 
Was  once  within  my  reach, 
I  sailed  the  ship  of  fancy 
To  many  a  tropic  beach; 
But  now  I  keep  the  docket, — 
The  book  of  ordinance, — 
My  fancy, — drudgery  took  it, 
Or  frightened  it,  perchance. 

And  yet,  though  fancy  passes, 
Back  to  its  fairy  land, 
Among  the  lowly  masses 
I  gladly  take  my  stand. 
I've  learnt  by  passing  through  it, 
That  most  of  those  who  fall, 
Are  not,  if  we  but  knew  it, 
So  wicked  after  all. 


74  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

NHCKANS  POLKA. 
A  Translation. 

In  the  ocean  'neath  the  crystal  cover 

Neckan  slumbers  in  coral  vale, 

Stars  of  night  are  bending  brightly  over, 

Over  wood,  over  hill,  and  dale, 

And  the  evening  scatters  sombre  beauty  round, 

On  the  zephyr  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound, 

To  break  the  stillness  of  night's  repose 

When  from  his  castle  the  king  of  ocean  goes. 

Agir's  daughters  are  rocking  slowly 

The  kind  of  ocean  across  the  deep. 

The  harper's  music  is  melancholy; 

It  seeks  a  grave  where  the  willows  weep. 

Not  a  messenger  in  heaven  meets  his  eye 

To  betoken  that  the  queen  of  night  is  nigh : 

Freja's  decking  her  golden  hair, 

And  pensive  Neckan  plays  a  mournful  air. 

"Oh,  where  art  thou,  brightest  star  of  heaven 
In  the  rapturous  evening  hour, 
Thou  who  once  to  me  on  earth  was  given, 
Was  my  bride  in  the  ocean  bower; 
Fairy  maid  of  more  than  earthly  charms, 
Coming  shy  and  trembling  to  my  arms, 
In  the  waves  beneath  the  jeweled  sky, 
When  the  golden  harp  stood  silent  by. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  75 

But  my  loved  one  was  by  Oden  taken 

Placed  to  shine  upon  Gimle's  throne 

And  the  singer  is  left  forsaken, 

He  possesses  her  name  alone; 

But  the  gods  shall  win  the  victory 

Over  evil  and  the  world  be  free, 

Then  we'll  meet  on  the  billows  blue 

And  play  the  golden  harp  in  regions  new." 

Thus  he  sang  and  where  the  stars  are  meeting 
Freja  looked  from  her  azure  throne, 
Smiled  and  gave  him  a  silent  greeting 
But  her  tears  in  the  twilight  shone, 
And  the  trembling  waves  her  image  mild 
Mirrored  back  to  heaven  when  she  smiled, 
Then  enraptured  his  fingers  flew 
O'er  the  golden  harp  on  billows  blue. 

Now  the  maids  of  night  are  drawing  nearer, 

They  tread  the  dance  in  the  evening  still 

And  the  melody  grows  sweeter,  clearer, 

As  it  echoes  from  hill  to  hill, 

But  when  all  the  East  in  purple  glows 

From  the  dance  the  gentle  maiden  goes, 

Bids  the  singer  a  sad  adieu, 

And  silent  is  the  harp  on  billows  blue. 


76  THE  Ou>  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

THH  KANSAS  GIRL. 

O,  come  my  harp,  let  music  stream 

From  every  quivering  string, 

The  Kansas  girl  shall  be  my  theme, 

For  her  let  music  ring. 

Last  night  amid  the  party's  throng 

She  set  my  head  awhirl, 

But  still  I'll  sing  a  joyful  song 

To  every  Kansas  girl. 

I  heard  the  music's  rhythmic  flow 

I  saw  those  maidens  rare, 

Upon  their  cheeks  the  sunset  glow 

Had  painted  roses  fair, 

And  Cupid  with  his  bow  and  dart, 

Was  hiding  mid  their  very  curls. 

Ah,  woe  unto  the  lover's  heart, 

For  dangerous  are  the  Kansas  girls. 

I  hear  the  railroad  engines  blast, 

It  warns  that  I  must  go, 

I  know  not  where  my  lot  is  cast ; 

But  whether  mid  the  polar  snow 

Or  Kansas  sunlight  clear, 

Or  where  the  wind  o'er  desert  whirls 

I  still  shall  treasure  memories  dear 

Of  all  the  Kansas  girls. 


OTHER  POEMS  oE  THE  PLAINS  77 

THE  MOTHER. 

Oh  songster  of  the  forest,  where  have  you  winged 

your  flight? 

In  vain  I  sit  and  listen  for  your  melodies  tonight. 
The  Autumn  leaves  are  falling,  the  flowers  all  are 

dead, 
The  maples  by  the  roadside  are  dressed  in  tints  of  red. 

Oh  happy  bird  of  Summer,  melodious  and  free, 

You  need  not  fear  the  tempest  or  the  raging  winter 

sea, 
You  have  journeyed  o'er  the  ocean  to  the  children  of 

the  sun, 
And  you  build  and  sing  and  carol,  your  nesting  time 

begun. 

O  have  you  seen  my  lost  one  who  left  so  long  ago, 

And  sailed  into  the  distance  when  the  sun  was  sink 
ing  low, 

To  seek  that  land  so  wonderful  across  the  viewless 
track 

That  takes  our  sons  and  daughters  and  does  not  give 
them  back? 

O  stately  was  the  vessel  bound  for  the  land  of  gold, 
It  plowed  into  the  open  sea  where  glittering  billows 

rolled, 
It  took  our  dearest  treasures  from  cottage,  thorp  and 

hall, 
And  my  darling  was  the  fairest  and  the  loveliest  of 

them  all. 


78  THS  OLD  SANTA  Fu  TRAIL  AND 

She  had  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven,  she  had  hair  of  sun 
light  spun, 

And  her  cheeks  were  like  the  roses  where  the  moun 
tain  streamlets  run 

And  she  left  with  many  a  promise  to  return  ere  many 
years, 

But  tonight  my  hopes  have  vanished  and  my  eyes  are 
filled  with  tears. 

Our  little  farm  has  prospered  and  full  the  orchard 

stands, 

But  all  our  little  treasures  pass  into  other  hands, 
Oh,  songster  of  the  forest,  could  I  but  follow  you 
Across  the  hills  and  valleys,  across  the  ocean  blue. 

I  would  seek  her  till  I  found  her  though  I  traveled 

night  and  day, 

And  fold  her  to  my  bosom  where  in  babyhood  she  lay. 
Feel  again  the  thrilling  pleasure  that  the  mothers  only 

know, 
While  I  kissed  her  lips  and  forehead  as  I  used  to,  long 

ago. 


OTHER  POEMS  01?  THE  PLAINS  79 

THE  DESERT. 

We  saw  a  lake  from  shore  to  shore, 

But  not  a  boat  the  billows  bore. 

It  lay  so  fair  beneath  the  sky, 

We  called,  but  no  one  gave  reply 

Save  echoes  that  our  voice  pursued 

Into  the  boundless  solitude. 

Deluded  from  the  path  we  turned, 

The  endless  desert  round  us  burned, 

But  on  we  pressed  with  eager  feet, 

Now  it  was  near,  the  water  sweet, 

And  now  again  it  seemed  afar 

But  beckoning  like  a  friendly  star, 

Until  at  last,  bewildered,  lost, 

We  saw  but  where  the  billows  tossed 

Their  silvery  spray  upon  the  beach, 

So  clear  and  cool  but  out  of  reach. 

Then  all  at  once  the  picture  fair 

Grew  dim  and  vanished  in  the  air. 

Calm  lay  the  desert  as  before, 

With  sage  and  cactus  scattered  o'er. 

Our  strength  was  gone,  our  courage  gone, 

We  would  have  perished  every  one 

But  for  the  guide  who  found  us  there, 

Bewildered  by  the  burning  air, 

And  cheered  us  on  and  brought  us  safe 

Back  to  the  river's  cooling  wave. 


80  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

One  day  the  engine's  measured  stroke 

The  silence  of  the  centuries  broke, 

A   hundred   men   with   spade   and   drill, 

Were  tunneling  through  a  giant  hill ; 

They  turned  the  river's  mighty  flow 

All  harnessed  on  the  plain  below. 

How  strange  it  seemed  to  wake  from  sleep, 

From  centuries  of  slumber  deep. 

The  Indians  on  the  mountain  range 

Looked  awe-struck  on  the  wondrous  change. 

The  desert  that  they  used  to  dread, 

By  evil  spirits  tenanted ; 

The  cactus  field,  the  valley  bare, 

Grew  verdant  with  a  beautv  rare. 


OTHER  POEMS  OE  THE  PLAINS  81 

THE  PRAIRIE  SONGSTER. 

O,  songster  of  the  prairie,  where  have  you  winged 

your  flight? 

In  vain  I  sit  and  listen  for  your  melodies  tonight. 
The  autumn  leaves  are  falling,  the  flowers  all  are  dead, 
The  sumac  in  the  valley  is  dressed  in  tents  of  red. 

Soon  will  the  rolling  river  in  icy  chains  be  bound, 
I  seem  to  hear  it  murmur  with  a  sad  and  muffled 

sound. 

O,  are  you  in  the  land  where  eternal  summer  reigns? 
Where  the  antelopes  are  sporting  in  freedom  o'er  the 

plains  ? 

Where  the  figs  and  the  bananas  in  wild  profusion 

grow, 
And  the  ocean's  balmy  breezes  over  hills  and  valleys 

blow. 
Are  you  sitting  in  the  branches  when  the  evening 

hours  begin, 
And  listening  to  the  music  of  the  joyous  violin? 

Where  the  southern  youths  and  maidens  in  a  world  of 

rapture  meet, 
And,  in  nature's  verdant  bowers,  dance  among  the 

flowers  sweet, 
Do  you  fill  the  air  with  music  when  they  part  and 

wander  home, 
And  the  amorous  moon  is  gliding  up  in  the  starry 

dome? 


82  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

Are  you  listening  to  the  thunder  of  the  cataract  rush 
ing  down 

In  a  cloud  of  mist  and  vapor  from  the  mountain's 
snowy  crown  ? 

Where  condor  and  the  eagle  build  upon  the  precipice, 

And  the  springs  of  leaping  water  far  below  them  boil 
and  hiss? 

Have  you  journeyed  o'er  the  ocean  when  it  slumbered 

like  a  child, 
Nothing  on  its  placid  bosom  to  betray  its  passions 

wild; 
Or  when  it  was  roused  and  angry,  did  you  hear  the 

thunder  shock 
Of  the  vessel  that  was  breaking  into  fragments  on 

the  rock? 

Did  you  stop  and  take  a  message  that  the  struggling 

sailor  gave 
For  the  loved  ones  ere  he  vanished  down  beneath  the 

ocean  wave? 
Have  you  seen  the  old  Parthenon,  ruined,  overgrown 

with  moss 
And  the  excavated  cities  buried  in  Vesuvius? 

Have  you  sung  in  the  arena  where  the  gladiators  fell, 
And  among  the  thousand  ruins  that  of  other  heroes 

tell? 
Ah,  the  palaces  of  Caesar  now  to  dust  are  crumbling 

fast, 
And  their  tales  of  ancient  splendor  sound  like  fables 

of  the  past. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  83 

But  you  care  not  for  the  glory  and  the  palaces  of  old, 
You  would  rather  seek  the  farmer  and  the  shepherd 

with  his  fold, 
Or  the  happy  children  playing  by  the  lowly  cottage 

door, 
And  to  them  your  joys  and   sorrows  in  melodious 

music  pour. 


84  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

DREAMING  OF  HOME. 

Around  me  the  shadows 

Of  evening  descend, 
And  the  groves  and  the  meadows 

In  phantasy  blend, 
And  the  farmer  comes  home  to  the  cots  where  I  roam ; 

But  my  heart  is  afar 

Where  the  loved  ones  are — 
I  am  dreaming  of  home,  I  am  dreaming  of  home. 

There  comes  from  the  lilies 

A  message  of  peace 
And  the  slumbering  rill  is 

Reflecting  the  trees 
In  the  glimm'ring  light  from  the  heavenly  dome; 

But  my  heart  is  afar, 

Where  the  loved  ones  are — 
I  am  dreaming  of  home,  I  am  dreaming  of  home. 

The  birds  in  the  shadows 

Are  whisp'ring  of  love 
And  sweet  are  the  meadows, 

The  flowers  and  grove, 

But  they're  not  like  my  own  o'er  the  deep  ocean's 
foam; 

For  that  land  is  so  fair, 

And  the  loved  ones  are  there — 
I  am  dreaming  of  home,  I  am  dreaming  of  home. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  85 

DR.  C.  A.  SWHNSON. 

How  the  pictures  rise  before  me  as  I  gaze  into  the 
past, 

See  the  tented  wagons  coming  drifting  o'er  the  prai 
rie  vast ! 

Here  the  settlers  camp  and  picket,  stake  their  home 
steads  one  by  one, 

Here  where  there  are  trees  and  water,  shelter  from 
the  wind  and  sun. 

Indian  warriors  grim  and  painted,  gaze  in  wonder  on 

the  scene, 
Roaming  with  their  bows  and  arrows  where  the  oxen 

graze  serene. 

Sleepless  nights  upon  the  prairie,  journeys  to  the 
railroad  far, 

Deeds  of  daring  pass  before  me  brilliant  as  the  morn 
ing  star. 

Hopefully  the   prairies  blossom   where   the   settlers 

build  and  break, 
See  the  wheatfields  and  the  verdure  nature's  dormant 

powers  awake. 

By  the  cottage,  by  the  river,  o'er  the  winding  buffalo 

path, 
Springs  the  orchards  into  beauty  in  the  sun's  electric 

bath. 


86  THE  Ou>  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

But  the  rising  generation,  how  shall  their  young  minds 

unfold, 
When  the  spirit  droops  and  sickens  in  the  ceaseless 

quest  for  gold? 

Thus  we  asked,  and  while  we  waited  came  the  one 

we  needed  most, 
It  was  Swenson,  C.  A.  Swenson,  in  himself  a  valiant 

host. 

Came  with  youth's  hot  pulses  throbbing,  scattered  joy 

on  every  hand, 
Filled  with  hope  the  weary  masses  toiling  toward  the 

sunset  land. 

Champion  of  a  higher  learning,  champion  of  the  true 
and  good, 

Of  a  stronger,  worthier  manhood,  and  a  nobler  wom 
anhood. 

All  his  wealth  of  mind  he  lavished,  all  his  giant 
strength  he  gave, 

Wakened  music  from  its  slumber,  poetry  from  ob 
livion's  grave. 

Every  Sabbath  from  the  pulpit  to  us  all  his  message 

came, 
Lifting  to  a  higher  level  with  his  eloquence  and  flame. 

At  his  lectures  in  the  chapel  in  the  sacred  morning 
hour, 

Filled  us  with  his  inspiration  and  with  love's  trans 
forming  power. 


OTHER  PO^MS  OF  THE  PLAINS  87 

See,  upon  the  college  campus,  by  the  school  he  loved 

so  well, 
Daisy  fields  are  all  in  blossom,  clover  buds  in  beauty 

swell 

But  no  more  he  comes  to  greet  us  with  his  hand  clasp 

warm  and  strong, 
For  he  sleeps  upon  the  prairie  in  the  sleep  so  calm  and 

long. 

Round  thy  brow,  O  Bethany  College,  beautiful  his 

memory  gleams, 
Here  the  scholar  comes  and  lingers,  here  the  lover 

comes  and  dreams. 

O !  our  songs  are  unavailing  when  the  spirit  great  has 

fled, 
Words  of  cheer  no  joy  awaken  in  the  cold  heart  of 

the  dead. 

Eagerly  the  river  rushes  onward  to  the  boundless  sea, 
Heedless  of  the  wind's  caresses  and  the  songsters' 

melody. 

Yonder  hill  in  vapor  shrouded  tells  of  mystery  and 

gloom, 
But  a  joyful  spirit  whispers  from  a  thousand  flowers 

in  bloom. 

And  we  wait  with  hope  and  patience  for  the  mist  to 

roll  away, 
For  the  beautiful  to  triumph  and  the  true  to  win  the 

day. 


88  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

THE  TRAVELERS. 

Oh,  travelers,  in  the  heat  and  dust, 
Come  in  across  the  meadow 
And  share  my  coffee  and  my  crust 
Within  the  maple's  shadow. 

Here  where  the  hedge  balls  hang  in  rows, 
Where  golden-rods  are  flaunted, 
As  fair  as  any  flower  that  grows 
In  regions  wonder-haunted. 

I  care  not  where  your  lot's  been  cast, 
'Mid  garden  bloom  or  heather; 
It  matters  not,  the  past  is  past, 
We're  comrades  here  together. 

You,  too,  have  heard  the  luring  cry 
Of  woods  and  meadows  calling, 
The  music  'neath  the  western  sky, 
The  mountain  torrents  falling. 

Tell  me  of  places  you  have  seen, 
The  fairy  tales  of  wonder, 
The  moss-hung  branches,  dark  and  green, 
That  you  have  wandered  under. 

And  I  will  weave  it  into  rhyme 
With  feeling  deep  and  tender, 
You  shall  be  hero  every  time 
Dressed  in  the  old  time  splendor. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  89 

The  flowers  wild  are  free  to  all, 
The  air  is  free  forever; 
The  turtle  dove,  the  bluebirds  call 
And  darkling  flows  the  river. 

We'll  follow  in  the  sunset's  track 
Without  a  guide  or  leader, 
The  wilderness  our  bivouac, 
Our  shelter  pine  and  cedar. 

Or  shall  we  rest  upon  the  sand, 
Our  campfire  brightly  burning, 
In  Montezuma's  speechless  land 
'Mid  empires  unreturning? 

The  star-swept  sky  will  bend  above, 
The  ruins  tell  the  story, 
All  silently  of  hate  and  love 
And  vanished  pomp  and  glory. 

How  sad  the  haunting  bugles  blow, 
What  odorous  winds  are  wafted 
Until  the  morning  comes,  aglow, 
With  sunbeams  golden-shafted. 

Calm  lies  the  desert  at  our  feet, 
No  prowling  foe  attacked  us; 
The  yucca  blooms,  the  air  is  sweet, 
High  towers  the  giant  cactus. 


90  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

ONLY  A  DREAM. 

Heaven's  stars  are  growing  dimmer, 
Skies  in  melting  purple  glimmer, 
Clouds  and  shadows  break ; 
Turtle-doves  are  softly  cooing, 
Winds  across  the  prairie  blowing, 
And  the  songsters  wake. 

In  the  topmost  branches  swinging, 
Hear  them  warbling,  hear  them  singing, 
As  they  greet  the  day. 
Where  the  glorious  notes  are  streaming, 
Sleeping  yet  and  fondly  dreaming 
Sits  a  sparrow  gray. 

As  it  dreams  it  joins  the  chorus 

Of  the  music  floating  o'er  us, 

Little  foolish  thing  ; 

Beautiful  the  song  is  sounding. 

Sparrow's  heart  with  joy  h  bounding, 

Oh,  how  sweet  they  sing. 

Now  in  ecstacy  they're  soaring, 
All  their  hearts  in  music  pouring 
Through  the  prairie-grove, 
And  the  birds  around  them  flying 
Stop  to  listen,  softly  sighing, 
When  they  sing  of  love. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  91 

From  the  eastern  purple  lining 
O'er  the  plain  the  sun  is  shining 
And  the  sparrow  wakes; 
Tries  to  follow  in  the  singing 
But  its  chirp  so  harshly  ringing, 
In  the  music  breaks. 

There  are  people  like  the  sparrow ; 
Mingled  waves  of  joy  and  sorrow 
Beat  within  the  breast; 
They  would  sing  a  song  i-ejoicing 
'All  the  hopes  and  sorrows  voicing 
Of  a  soul's  unrest. 

But  the  broken  notes  are  straying 

Through  their  singing,  through  their  playing, 

With  discordant  ring; 

They  have  listened  to  the  poet 

And  they  know  it,  O  they  know  it, 

That  they  cannot  sing. 

But  sometime  their  souls  are  glowing, 
Thrilled,  enraptured,  overflowing 
With  a  burst  of  song; 
And  sometime  to  ease  the  paining 
Of  the  heart,  they  sit  complaining 
In  their  broken  tongue. 


92  TH$  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

TO  THE  BOYS  OF  COMPANY  D.} 
McPHHRSON,  KANSAS. 

On  their  departure  for  Mexico,  June,  1916. 

How  grand  you  looked  that  day  in  June  as  on  the 

field's  incline 
You  answered  to  the  bugle's  call  and  marshaled  into 

line, 

Tanned  by  the  wind,  the  Kansas  sun, 
O,  we  had  known  you  every  one 
Through  hardships  that  had  come  and  gone, 
In  work,  in  rain  and  shine. 

All  ripening  stood  the  fields  of  v/heat  upon  that  sum 
mer  morn, 

The  meadows  waited  for  the  mower  and  for  the  plow 
the  corn, 

And  yet  you  came,  you  left  it  all 

In  answer  to  your  country's  call. 

To  march,  to  fight,  perhaps  to  fall 

On  battlefields  forlorn. 

We  know  not  what  your  orders  are,  where  you  shall 

make  your  stand, 

Perhaps  upon  some  arid  plain  beyond  the  Rio  Grande, 
But  still  our  hearts  are  all  aglow 
With  hope  and  joy,  for  this  we  know, 
A  gleam  shall  follow  where  )'ou  go 
To  glorify  the  land. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  93 

Reared  on  the  freedom-loving  plains,  sons  of  the 
pioneer, 

You  helped  to  tame  the  wilderness  and  win  the  splen 
dors  here. 

Fling  out  your  colors  'neath  the  sky, 

The  threatening  forces  drawing  nigh 

Shall  quail  before  that  banner  high 

In  panic-stricken  fear. 

O  there  are  fertile  prairies  there  and  beauty  spots,  we 
know, 

And  lakes  that  sparkle  in  the  sun  and  catch  the  after 
glow, 

But  fearful  is  the  tyrant's  spell, 
The  bandits  of  the  chaparral, 

The  greed,  the  hate  that  none  can  tell. 

Oh,  stricken  Mexico. 

Here  are  your  homes,  your  friends  are  here  and  here 

the  skies  are  blue, 
But  bugles  blow; — Good-by!  Good  luck  to  you  our 

soldiers  true; 

When  war's  mad  rage  at  last  is  spent 
Come  back  to  us  from  camp  and  tent 
As  glad,  as  willing  as  you  went 
When  Duty  called  you. 


94  THE  OLD  SANTA  Fs  TRAIL  AND 

A  MORNING  PICTURE. 
(From  the  Swedish  of  Bellman) 

Hushed  the  storm  and  billows  are, 
And  the  gleaming  morning  star, 
Now  its  lonely  watch  forsaking, 
Fades  away;  the  day  is  breaking. 

Fogs  are  lifted, 

From  us  drifted, 
Birds  by  song  of  rapture  gifted. 
Winds  are  dancing  o'er  the  plain, 
Rattling  door  and  window  pane, 
Asp  and  maples  quiver, 
The  black-cock  by  the  river 

Now  is  drumming 

And  the  humming. 

To  his  barn  the  farmer  coming 

And  in  the  stove 

Grasses  and  things 

Sputter  and  glow 

Till  aflame  it  springs. 
The  porridge  pots  are  steaming  higher; 

And  the  farmer  there 

With  a  smiling  air 
Hunts  for  his  tobacco  fire 

In  the  field  alone 

Leaning  on  a  stone 
Stands  the  early  Dalaker. 


OTHER  POEMS  of  THE  PLAINS  95 

See  the  man  behind  the  bar 
Dusting  where  the  bottles  are, 

And  a  minute  after 
Stand   and  shake   with  laughter, 

Smoke   and   banter 

With  the  hunter 
And  the  customers  that  enter. 

The  madame  down  beside  the  stand 
Leans  her  head  upon  her  hand. 
At  her  work  she's  plodding 
Slumbering  and  nodding. 

The  sun  climbs  higher, 

And  his  fire 
Shines  upon  the  goblet  by  her. 

From  the  river  bed 

The  mill  sounds  clear — 

Hear  from  the  shed — 

Oh,  did  you  hear  ? 
The  cheerful  sound  of  the  village  smithy? 

The  blacksmith  tall  and   slim 

In  the  shadows  dim 
Now  begins  his  morning  ditty. 

Swings  the  hammer  high, 

Makes  the  embers  fly 
Dancing  'neath  the  rafters  bare. 

Bracing  is  the  morning  air 

Every  bud  and  flower  fair 

Bathes  in  dew  its  chalice 

By  both  hut  and  palace. 


96  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

The   day  grows   sweeter 

And  completer 

With  perfume  the  flowers  greet  her. 
The  woods  are  painted  dark  and  blue; 
Hills  and  mountains  come  to  view 
With  both  sheep  and  cattle: 
Children  run  and  prattle 

Of  the  weather 

O'er  the  heather, 
Call  their  straying  herds  together. 

Over  the  crops 

The  lark  arose; 

The  rooster  flaps 

His  wings  and  crows! 
And  all  nature  stirs  and  wakens 

Beautiful  and  gay, 

Dressed  for  work  or  play. 


OTHER  POEMS  OP  THE  PLAINS  97 

KANSAS. 

O,  land  of  rolling  prairies, 
Land  of  the  restless  throng 
That  cannot  stop  but  hurries 
In  eager  haste  along. 

Our  freedom's  sun  descending 
Hung  by  the  western  strand 
When  thou  its  cause  defending 
Upraised  thy  infant  hand. 

The  North  and  South  were  sundered 
And  threatening  grew  the  sky 
'Round  thee  the  cannons  thundered 
And  sung  thy  lullaby 

The  fire  that  thou  hadst  lighted 
Soon  spread  from  sea  to  sea 
And  slavery  fled  affrighted, 
Four  million  slaves  were  free. 

Hushed  is  the  sound  of  battle, 
The  cannons  flaming  red. 
See  herds  of  grazing  cattle 
And  fields  of  wheat  instead. 

O,  pioneers  and  heroes 
Oft  hidden  in  the  blast 
Of  smoke  and  battle  near  us, 
We  know  your  worth  at  last. 


98  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

Your  aged  feet  are  turning 
To  leave  the  battle's  brunt, 
But  troops  with  pulses  burning 
Are  pressing  to  the  front. 

And  still  the  cry  is  "Forward 
For  liberty  and  truth." 
There  is  no   faltering  coward 
Among  the  Kansas  youth. 

God  speed  your  youthful  forces 
Ye  regiments  of  toil. 
You  have  the  vast  resources 
Of  Kansas'  fertile  soil. 

Lift  nearer  to  the  summit 
Our  golden  "Sunflower  State," 
And  banish  evil  from  it, 
Seek  for  the  good  and  great. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  99 

THE  WBAL. 

My     dream-world,  how  its  towers 
Fade  as  the  bayonets  gleam; 
My  faith  in  human  powers ; 
My  fond  Utopian  dream. 
I  dreamt  it  in  my  childhood, 
I  dreamt  it  in  my  home 
Beside  a  river-wildwood 
Where  fairies  used  to  roam. 

For  I  was  born  'mid  splendor 
Of  prairies  rolling  free, 
And  loving  hands  and  tender 
Were  those  that  sheltered  me. 
The  leaping  prairie-fire, 
The  bolts  by   lightning  hurled, 
The  buds  on  tree  and  briar 
Made  wonderful  my  world. 

The  fields  of  necromancy 
Were  then  within  my  reach, 
I  sailed  the  ship  of  Fancy 
To  many  a  tropic  beach. 
I  drew  from  magic  places 
The  nymphs  of  fairyland 
To  tread  with  me  the  mazes 
Of  music,  hand  in  hand. 


100  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

0  sweet  it  was  to  listen 
To  woman  free  from  guile, 
When  Love  had  broken  prison 
And  beamed  in  look  and  smile, 
And  still  my  being  quivers 
To  that  first  ecstacy 

As  glad  as  mountain  rivers 
That  join  to  meet  the  sea. 
My  daily  work  and  duty 
Were  dear  to  me  as  life. 

1  dreamt  of  love  and  beauty 
I  woke  to  war  and  strife, 

And  something  great  had  vanished, 

Some  earthly  hope  and  trust, 

Some  cherished  dreams  were  banished, 

Some  flowers  turned  to  dust. 

Is  there  no  higher  vision 

Such  as  I  fancied  then? 

Are  there  no  fields  Elysian? 

Then  let  me  dream  again. 

Let  me  forget  the  real, 

The  muddy,  rolling  stream, 

Give  me  the  high  ideal, 

O  give  me  back  my  dream! 

Let  me  believe  the  glory 

Of  goodness,  truth  of  heart, 

Though  battlefields  are  gory 

And  friends  and  lovers  part. 

Let  me  believe  the  hour 

Has  come  when  right  must  win 

O'er  hate,  and  lust  for  power, 

O'er  tyranny  and  sin. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  101 


THE  AVIATOR. 

Like  a  ship  that  is  tempest  driven 
He  fell  in  his  aeroplane, 
Down,  down  from  the  starry  heaven 
To  the  foot  of  the  mountain  chain. 

They  called  him  a  reckless  rider, 
They  said  he  was  overbold, 
In  this  city  with  mines  besile  her 
Where  the  people  dug  for  gold. 

But  he  told  not  a  word  of  his  story, 
Of  his  flight  over  lake  and  wood, 
Not  a  word  of  the  thrill  and  the  glory 
For  they  would  not  have  understood. 

He  thanked  for  the  water  given 
From  the  spring  at  the  mountain  side, 
He  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven 
And  folded  his  hands  and  died. 

They  know  not,  who  dwell  in  that  city, 
Of  his  dream  to  conquer  the  skies, 
And  never  a  tear  of  pity 
Is  shed  where  the  rider  lie«. 


102  THS  OLD  SANTA  Fs  TRAIL  AND 

THE  FAIRY  DANCE. 

In  the  shade  and  the  quiver 

Of  cottonwoods  tall, 

Where  the  quail  by  the  river 

Is  piping  its  call, 

A  farmer  boy  wanders. 

Of  the  wonderful  things 

That  solitude  brings 

He  dreams  and  he  ponders. 

Around  him   the  shadows 

Of  evening  descend, 

And  the  groves  and  the  meadows 

In  phantasy  blend; 

And  the  fairies  have  opened  their  portal 

Over  the  prairie  they  stray, 

And  the  music,  the  play, 

Is  too  sweet  for  the  ears  of  a  mortal. 

Round  the  youth  they  are  weaving 

Their  wonderful  spell, 

Was  he  sad?  was  he  grieving? 

No  mortal  can  tell. 

But  like  one  from  a  slumber  he  started, 

He  is  joining  the  band; 

See!  the  queen  gives  her  hand, 

O !  the  queen  she  is  fair,  but  cold  hearted. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  103 

Scarcely  bending  the  grasses 

Her  tiny  feet  fly, 

And  the  wind  as  it  passes 

In  ecstasy  by 

Throws  her  willowy  hair  on  his  shoulder. 

"O,  what  rapture  to  be 

In  the  dancing  with  thee" 

Were  the  only  words  that  he  told  her. 

But  the  music  is  ceasing 

As  strange  as  it  came, 

The  light  increasing, 

The  sky  is  aflame. 

How  soon  it  was  over 

That  midsummer  night; 

Not  a  fairy  in  sight. 

All  alone  are  the  youth  and  old  Rover. 

But  oft  when  the  shadows 

Of  evening  descend, 

And  the  groves  and  the  meadows 

In  phantasy  blend, 

And  the  monotone  crickets  are  playing; 

Where  the  echoes  are  heard 

Of  the  sad  mocking  bird 

A  lonely  farmer  is  straying. 

Come  softly  and  listen, 
He  plays  on  his  flute 
When  the  moon  has  risen 
And  the  songsters  are  mute — 


104  THE  OLD  SANTA  Fs  TRAIL  AND 

You  shall  linger  and  listen  enraptured. 

For  the  melody  speaks 

Of  the  loved  one  he  seeks 

'Tis  the  music  from  fairyland  captured. 

Each  evening  he   follows 

The  river  and  streams; 

O'er  the  buffalo  hollows 

Where  the  firefly  gleams 

He  seeks  for  the  queen  of  the  prairie, 

But  he  gazes  in  vain 

Over  valley  and  plain 

For  that  loved  but  mysterious  fairy. 

He  has  sought  where  the  lilies 

Are  fanned  by  the  breeze, 

And  down  where  the  rill  is 

Reflecting  the  trees, 

By  the  moon's  ever  varying  glimmer 

He  has  sought  her  at  night 

Till  the  prairie  fire's  light 

In  the  distance  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer. 

But  she's  gone,  and  he  never 

Shall  find  her  again. 

Oh  garlanded  river, 

Oh  valleys  and  glen, 

Oh  birds  of  the  prairies 

Who  come  every  spring 

And  carrol  and  sing 

Why  comes  not  the  queen  of  the  fairies? 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  105 

THE  PEASANT  GIRL. 
(From  the  Swedish  of  Runeberg.) 

The  evening  came,  the  setting  sun,  the  quiet  and 
peaceful  shadows; 

A  light  of  pallid  purple  glowed  on  cottages  and 
meadows. 

And  from  their  labor  came  a  troop  of  tired  militia 
men 

Their  task  was  done  and  they  returned  back  to  their 
homes  again. 

The  day  was  won,  the  harvest  reaped,  the  battle-field 

forsaken. 

A  bold  marauding  enemy  was  slain  or  captive  taken. 
They'd  hastened  out  to  stop  their  march  before  the 

morning  chime, 
When  all  was  turned  to  victory,  then  it  was  evening 

time. 

Not  far  from  where  the  battle  raged,  by  wood  and 
meadow  skirted 

Beside  the  road  a  cottage  stood,  at  that  time  half- 
deserted  ; 

Upon  the  stair  a  maiden  sat  and  saw  the  troops  go  by, 

Returning  to  their  peaceful  homes  beneath  the  even 
ing  sky. 


106     .       THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

She  gazed  like  those  who  seek  someone;  who  knows 

what  she  was  thinking? 
Her  cheeks  were  redder  than  the  sun   in  western 

purple  sinking. 
She  looked  so  eager  where  she  sat,  so  tremulous  and 

sweet, 
And  if  she  listened  as  she  gazed,  she  heard  her  own 

heart  beat. 
But  silently  the  troop  went  by,  close  to  the  cottage 

turning ; 

To  every  rank,  to  every  man  she  sent  a  question  burn 
ing, 
A  question  in  the  eyes  appeal,  expressed  without  a 

word, 

As  silent  as  the  sigh  that  died  upon  her  lips  unheard. 
When  the  last  rank  had  come  and  gone,  when  every 

one  had  passed  her, 
Then  the  poor  maiden's  courage  failed,  her  grief  she 

could  not  master; 
Like  one  resigned  her  forehead  sank  into  her  open 

palm 

And  sweetly  came  a  flood  of  tears  with  sorrow's  heal 
ing  balm. 
"Why  do  you  weep?    Have  courage,  girl,  for  hope 

may  come  tomorrow. 
O  daughter  hear  your  mother's  voice;  in  vain  is  all 

your  sorrow ; 
The  one  you  sought  but  could  not  find  a  little  while 

ago, 
He  is  not  dead,  he  thought  of  you  and  he  will  come 

I  know. 


OTHER  PO^MS  OF  THE  PLAINS  107 

He  thought  of  you,  before  he  went,  I  counseled  him 
in  quiet, 

Not  to  rush  blindly  into  war  or  into  battle's  riot. 

Unwillingly  he  joined  the  troops,  'mid  gleaming  lance 
and  shield; 

The  joys  of  life  were  dear  to  him  and  hard  the  battle 
field." 

The  maiden  looked  with  anguish,  up  and  rose,  when 
she  had  spoken, 

As  if  some  wild,  foreboding  fear  her  silent  grief  had 
broken. 

She  did  not  wait,  she  cast  a  look  out  where  the  field 
was  won, 

And  silently  she  stole  away,  grew  dimmer  and  was 
gone. 

A  moment  passed,  the  night  was  near,  the  sky  began 
to  show  it, 

A  cloud  was  floating  silver-white,  but  twilight  lay 
below  it. 

"She  lingers  long.  O  daughter  come!  In  vain  is  all 
your  fear; 

Tomorrow  ere  the  morning  sun.  your  bridegroom  will 
be  here." 

The  daughter  came,  she  did  not  hear,  her  mother's 
voice  consoling; 

Her  tender  eyes  no  longer  dim  with  tears  beyond  con 
trolling, 

But  O,  her  hand  in  greeting  given,  was  colder  than  the 
night, 

Her  cheeks  more  pallid  than  the  cloud  in  heaven  float 
ing  white. 


108  THE)  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

"Make  me  a  grave,  O  mother  dear!     My  hopes  were 

all  unfounded, 
The  one  to  whom  I  gave  my  love,  fled  when  the  bugle 

sounded ; 
He  thought  of  me  and  of  himself  when  danger  was  at 

hand, 
Unfaithful  to  his  brethren's  hope  and  to  his  native 

land. 

I  found  him  not  among  the  ranks  returning  slowly 

near  us, 
But  thought  that  like  a  man  he  lay  among  the  fallen 

heroes ; 
So  precious  was  his  memory  then,  I  shed  no  bitter 

tears, 
I  only  asked  to  live  and  mourn  for  him  a  thousand 

years. 

0  mother,  I  have  searched  the  field,  where  now  the 

shadows  hover, 
But  none  among  the  fallen  bore  the  features  of  my 

lover. 
Ill-fated  land  if  all  were  false  when  foes  are  drawing 

nigh, 

1  found  him  not  among  the  dead  and  therefore  let  me 

die." 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  109 

THE  HEROES  OF  THE  SPANISH- 
AMERICAN  WAR. 

The  bugle  notes  are  falling 
O'er  cities,  towns  and  farms, 
It  is  the  nation  calling 
The  cry,  to  arms!  to  arms! 

There,  where  the  crowds  are  meeting, 
Some  aged  veterans  come, 
Their  hearts  are  wildly  beating, 
To  hear  the  fife  and  drum. 

O!  pioneers  and  heroes, 
Oft  hidden  in  the  blast 
Of  smoke  and  battle  near  us, 
We  know  your  worth  at  last. 

. 
Your  aged  steps  are  turning 

To  leave  the  battle's  brunt, 
But  troops  with  pulses  burning 
Are  pressing  to  the  front. 

And  still  the  cry  is  "Forward 
For  liberty  and  truth !" 
There  is  no  faltering  coward 
Among  the  Kansas  youth. 


110  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

They  see  the  flashing  sabre, 
They  hear  the  cannon's  boom, 
These  men  whose  patient  labor 
Has  made  the  desert  bloom. 

They  leave  the  friends  they  cherish, 
O  do  you  understand — 
To  fight,  perhaps  to  perish, 
Upon  a  foreign  strand. 

When  fever  runs  its  riot 
Will  there  be  faces  sweet, 
And  tender  hands  to  quiet 
The  heart's  convulsive  beat? 

See  the  white  tents  are  gleaming 
Down  by  the  Mexic  tide; 
The  blue  and  gray  are  dreaming 
Of  victory  side  by  side. 

And  heavy  ships  are  coming 
To  bear  our  soldiers  o'er — 
Hear,  hear  the  cannons  booming 
Upon  the  Cuban  shore. 

O  friends!  we  can  but  bid  you 
A  lingering,  fond  good-bye, 
Our  hopes,  our  hearts  are  with  you 
Beneath  the  Southern  sky. 


OTHER  POEMS  of  THE  PLAINS  111 


ROSE  MARIE. 

Saloons  are  everywhere 
And  eyes  upon  us  glare 
Who  feel  no  pity, 
In  buildings  old  and  gray, 
Around  a  large  cafe 
Deep  in  the  city. 

And  dainty  Rose  Marie 
Who  came  across  the  sea 
Is  waiting  table, 
She  with  the  deep  blue  eyes 
That  bards   immortalize 
In  song  and  fable. 

The  air  within  the  room 
Is  filled  with  liquor  fume 
From  cups  and  glasses, 
And  to  her  table  come 
From  boulevard  and  slum 
All  ranks  and  classes. 

She  moves  from  chair  to  chair 

So  innocent  and  fair 

And  does  her  duty; 

Her  woman's  mighty  power 

Just  bursting  into  flower 

And  radiant  beauty. 


112  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

Still  linger  in  her  eyes 
The  wonder  and  surprise 
Of  a  new  comer 
And  written  in  her  face 
Are  simple  country  ways 
And  smile  of  summer. 

She  knows  not  that  the  truth 
And  purity  of  youth 
Are  held  the  cheapest — 
That  those  who  love  the  most 
Are  ruined  and  lost 
And  sink  the  deepest. 

But  e'er  her"  soul  shall  feel 
The  crushing  hobo's  heel, 
Like  some  poor  flower, 
Some   desert   wanderer 
Among  the  souls  that  err 
May  feel  her  power. 

And  read  the  truth  that  lies 
In  those  deep  azure  eyes 
And  courage  gather, 
To  turn  his  step  once  more 
Back  to  the  open  door, 
Back  to  the  Father. 


OTHER  POEMS  OE  THE  PLAINS  113 

COMRADES. 

We  met  behind  the  friendly  banks 

Made  by  a  shell-torn  crater, 

I  was  a  private  in  the  ranks 

And  he  an  aviator. 

His  plane  lay  wrecked  upon  the  field 

In  No  Man's  Country  stranded, 

A  mass  of  flame  from  wing  to  shield, 

Deserted  where  he  landed. 

We  talked  of  places  far  away 

From  that  ill-fated  heather 

For  we  had  met  in  U.  S.  A. 

And  traveled  much  together. 

Again  we  lived  through  every  scene, 

We  saw  the  land  of  wonder, 

The  moss-hung  branches  dark  and  green 

That  we  had  wandered  under. 

We  followed  in  the  settler's  track 

Without  a  guide  or  leader, 

The  wilderness  our  bivouac, 

Our  shelter  pine  and  cedar. 

We  camped  upon  the  rolling  plain 

Beside  the  peaceful  river, 

We  saw  the  reapers  in  the  grain, 

The  children  glad  as  ever. 


114  THE  OLD  SANTA  Fs  TRAIL  AND 

They  had  not  felt  the  Demon's  breath 
Within  those  peaceful  borders, 
They  had  not  heard  the  cry  of  Death, 
The  Kaiser's  frightful  orders; 
Nor  heard,  O,  God,  beneath  the  skies 
The  prayers  of  children  lonely; 
Nor  seen  the  cheeks,  the  hungry  eyes 
That  speak  of  suffering  only. 

Why  are  we  here  ?  we  sometimes  ask 
When  loud  the  sabres  rattle, 
Why  did  we  leave  our  peaceful  task 
For  suffering  and  battle? 
O  we  are  here  to  stem  the  flood 
That  threatens  every  nation! 
We  were  not  human  if  we  stood 
And  watched  this   desolation. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  115 

THE  CITY. 

In  Germany,  above  the  mountain  cedar, 
It  towers  high  with  minarets  aglow, 
Among  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  a  leader 
In  sport  and  fashion  and  the  glittering  show. 

There  lived  a  race  who  gathered  wealth  and  treasure 
In  stately  palace,  in  the  castle  grand, 
Who  lived  for  power  for  fashion  and  pleasure 
And  had  no  care  for  toilers  of  the  land. 

And  yet  they  knew  that  in  the  darkness  dwelling 
Another  people  held  the  mountain's  base, 
That  fortune's  roses  in  the  sunlight  swelling 
Drew  life  and  bloom  from  this  neglected  race. 

In  that  fair  city,  'mong  the  trees  and  flowers, 
A  singer  lived,  the  favorite  of  all, 
Whose  voice  had  magic  and  refreshing  powers 
Like  David's  music  to  the  heart  of  Saul. 

Hers  was  the  power,  the  joy,  to  charm  and  capture 
The  hearts  of  men  with  the  sweet  gift  of  song, 
To  win  the  loud  applause,  to  feel  the  rapture, 
The  inspiration  of  the  listening  throng. 

Tired  of  the  feast  one  night  she  left  the  castle 
With  flowers  and  roses  that  her  songs  had  won, 
And  down  she  passed  from  the  electric  dazzle, 
Down  to  the  plain  where  deep  the  rivers  run. 


116  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

From  wretched  huts  and  midnight  hiding  places 
Arose  a  sound  as  of  a  muddy  stream; 
Among  those  scenes,  among  those  haggard  faces, 
With  her  poor  flowers  she  stood  as  in  a  dream. 

Into  her  basket  hungry  eyes  were  staring 
But  fell  the  torch  light  on  the  flowers  and  moss, 
A  laugh  was  heard,  half  mocking,  half  despairing, 
"She  brings  us  flowers,  only  flowers,  for  us." 

"What  can  you  give,  Oh  lady,  with  your  riches? 
Our  homes  are  cold,  our  children  cry  for  bread, 
Our  men  are  rotting  in  the  Kaiser's  ditches, 
Give  us  our  sons,  give  us  our  loved  and  dead." 

She  fled  affrighted  but  the  haggard  faces 
Before  her  eyes  as  apparitions  came. 
Sweet  were  the  flowers  in  the  familiar  places 
But  pleasure's  world  did  not  appear  the  same. 

The  feast  was  o'er,  the  revellers  departed, 
The  lords  and  ladies  of  the  castle  slept, 
She  could  not  sleep,  the  singer,  tender  hearted, 
She  bowed  her  head  upon  her  hands  and  wept. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  117 

THE  FLAG. 

The  raging  fight  at  last  was  o'er, 
Both  friends  and  foes  were  sleeping, 
And  on  the  silent  battlefield 
The  dewy   night  was  weeping; 
Among  the  fallen  ones  who  lay 
Upon  the  field  of  death 
Was  one,  forgotten  and  alone, 
Whose   spirit  lingered  yet. 

The  fevered  hand  with  iron  grasp 
A  starry  flag  was  holding, 
Whose  folds  fell  softly  on  his  breast, 
The  slender  form  enfolding. 
It  was  the  flag  his  valor  saved 
Upon  that  hard  fought  day; 
The  one  for  which  he  gladly  gave 
His  youthful  life  away. 

Hark!  Listen,  see  from  yonder  plain 
By  wood  and  meadow  skirted, 
A  girl  comes  riding  to  the  field 
Of  battle,  now  deserted. 
The  glances  from  her  anxious  eyes 
Are  piercing  through  the  night; 
The  wavy  hair  falls  round  a  face 
Flushed  by  the  hurried  flight. 


118  THE  OLD  SANTA  Fs  TRAIL  AND 

Oh!  now  she  passes  near  the  youth 
Whose  life  is  swiftly  fleeting; 
She  stops  and  looks  with  startled  eyes, 
Perhaps  she  heard  him  breathing, 
Her  gaze  falls  on  the  slender  form 
Wrapped  in  the  starry  shroud, 
And  then  upon  the  stillness  rings 
A  cry  of  anguish  loud. 

Again  we  plunge  into  the  fight, 

For  peaceful  night  is  ended, 

And  densely  rolling  clouds  of  smoke 

With  tongues  of  flame  are  blended. 

The  remnant  of  our  army  stands 

Cut  off  from  all  retreat, 

But  fighting  bravely,  though  they  know 

It  only  means  defeat. 

Then  from  the  clouds  of  blinding  smoke, 

Out  where  the  guns  are  flashing, 

A  girl  upon  a  charger  swift, 

Comes  to  the  battle  dashing, 

She  waves  aloft  the  battle  flag 

To  every  soldier  dear, 

The  flag  that  floated  o'er  the  field 

When  victory  was  near. 


OTHER  POEMS  of  THE  PLAINS  119 

O !  hear  that  shout,  that  wild  hurrah ! 

See  o'er  the  trenches  leaping 

Our  shattered  ranks  against  the  foe 

In  bayonet  charge  are  sweeping. 

No  human  power  could  long  withstand 

That  wild  and  fierce  attack, 

At  every  point  along  the  lines 

The  foes  are  driven  back. 

When  all  was  o'er  and  victory  won, 
Among  the  dead  we  found  her, 
The  banner  that  her  lover  saved 
Was  fondly  wrapped  around  her. 
The  dainty  hand  around  the  staff 
In  death  had  firmly  closed 
And  calmly  now  upon  the  field 
The  lovely  form  reposed. 

We  raised  the  flag  above  our  dead, 
In  all  its  battle-beauty. 
No  weakly,  unmanly  tears  we  shed, 
Had  they  not  done  their  duty? 
The  glorious  flag  we  loved  so  well 
Was  floating  proudly  near  us, 
Unconquered  still  it  rose  and  fell 
Above  the  dead,  the  heroes. 


120  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

PLAYMATES. 

Beneath  the  rosy  tinted  eastern  sky 

A  cottage  stood,  the  rivulet  flowing  by 

Wound  here  and  there  and  loitered  on  its  way, 

To  sing  and  babble  like  a  child  at  play, 

The  tireless  swallow  dipped  her  pinions  there 

And  giant  trees  that  towered  in  the  air, 

Spread  out  their  boughs,  and  in  the  shade  beneath 

Two  children  sat  and  bound  a  daisy-wreath, 

A  little  fellow  and  his  playmate  fair. 

Their  prattling  fell  like  music  on  the  air. 

Their  task  was  done,  the  wreath  was  finished  now, 

He  rose  and  placed  it  on  her  fair  young  brow 

And  then  they  played  upon  the  meadow  green; 

He  was  the  king  and  she  the  fairy  queen. 

Thus  passed  the  years  till  they  were  grown, 

Then  came  the  call,  the  order, 

"To  arms!  to  arms!"     The  bayonets  shone, 

The  Germans  crossed  the  border. 

And  where  the  children  used  to  come 

With  song  and  joyful  prattle, 

There  fell  the  sons  of  Belgium 

In  fierce,  defensive  battle. 

When  darkness  came  upon  the  scene 

The  bullets  still  were  flying 

But  he  who  played  upon  the  green 

Lay  'mong  the  dead  and  dying. 

Forgotten  were  the  flash  and  gleam, 

The  wounded  round  him  reeling. 

A  vision  or  perhaps  a  dream 

Came  o'er  his  senses  stealing. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  121 

A  hand  was  stretched  his  wounds  to  bind, 

A  hand  so  soft  and  tender, 

And  spirit-eyes  so  wondrous  kind 

Shone  in  their  midnight  splendor. 

She  raised  his  head  but  did  not  speak, 

His  face  to  heaven  turning. 

She  touched  his  temple  and  his  cheek, 

They  were  so  hot  and  burning, 

And  then  she  vanished  as  she  came. 

He  could  not  hear  her  speaking. 

The  cannons  shot  their  tongues  of  flame, 

The  shells  were  round  them  shrieking, 

At  last  he  woke,  his  wounds  were  dressed, 

His  limbs  felt  better,  stronger. 

The  morning  wind  his  brow  caressed 

As  if  men  fought  no  longer. 

He  looked  around  upon  the  scene. 

Hushed  were  the  noise  and  rattle 

But  she  who  played  upon  the  green 

Lay  on  the  field  of  battle. 

Shot  as  she  passed  the  line  at  night, 

Where  Love  and  Duty  brought  her, 

Her  stiffened  hands  were  holding  tight 

His  helmet  filled  with  water. 


122  THE  OLD  SANTA  F$  TRAIL  AND 

THE  RED  CROSS  NURSH. 

Dark  it  lies,  a  town  forsaken, 
But  the  "First  Relief"  has  taken 
Quarters  there  tonight. 
And  the  rescue  force  advances, 
On  the  field,  the  ambulances 
Come  with  burdens  white. 

Come  with  men  with  haggard  faces, 

Men  from  widely  scattered  places, 

Into  battle  flung, 

Some,  with  fevered  brains,  who  stammer 

Of  the  glory  and  the  glamour, 

Some  so  pale  and  young. 

O  the  loneliness,  the  crisis, 

When  the  fever  falls  and  rises 

In  the  time  of  dread ; 

When  the  midnight  hour  comes  stealing 

And  the  shadows  on  the  ceiling 

Are  the  loved  and  dead. 

Nights  in  trenches  on  the  prairie, 
Haunting  scenes  from  Chateau  Thierry, 
Crowd  into  review, 
Comrades  dying  unattended, 
Noble  men  whose  lives  are  ended, 
Cry  from  Wood  Belleau. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  123 

See!  The  shattered  ranks  are  forming, 
Rushing  onward,  firing,  storming 
Through  the  wild  Argonne, 
And  the  airplanes,  never  resting, 
Battle  in  the  night,  contesting 
Every  victory  won. 

Hark !  She  comes !  The  men  who  languish 
In  that  room  of  pain  and  anguish, 
Breathe  a  silent  prayer, 
For  she  comes  and  bathes  and  dresses 
Wounded  limbs   and  softly  blesses 
With  a  nurse's  care. 

O,  I  know  I  cannot  paint  her 
For  her  spirit-face  grows  fainter 
'Neath  the  brush  or  pen. 
You  must  see  her  serving,  bending 
O'er  the  sick,  the  wounded  tending, 
Paint  her  picture  then. 

Paint  her  in  the  midnight  lonely, 
With  the  dying,  waiting  only 
For  the  day  to  come. 
Hear  the  words  of  comfort  spoken, 
See  the  message  left,  the  token, 
For  the  loved  at  home. 


124  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

O  the  buildings  gray  and  rifted 
And  the  tents  on  rafters  lifted 
Sheltered  all  her  sick, 
But  without  the  love  she's  teaching, 
What  were  buildings,  heaven-reaching? 
Only  walls  of  brick. 


125 


THE-  INDIAN  FOUNTAIN. 

It  runs  'mid  the  glow  and  glory 
Of  trees  that  are  old  and  hoary, 
'Mid  fringes  of  golden  rod ; 
Around  it  the  forest  arches 
And  seems,  when  the  sunlight  parches 
The  fields,  like  a  house  of  God. 

A  temple  for  rich  and  lowly, 
A  temple  with  anthems  holy 
That  banish  the  thoughts  of  care. 
Untouched  by  the  hand  of  vandals, 
Like  Moses  without  his  sandals 
You  feel  you  should  enter  there. 

Oh,  enter  and  wander  deeper 
In  the  wood  for  it  has  no  keeper, 
No  bar  to  the  water  sweet ; 
It  beacons  across  the  prairies 
As  free  as  the  open  air  is, 
A  haven  for  weary  feet. 

Some  trees  that  have  stood  for  ages 
Are  green  as  the  desert  sage  is, 
While  some  are  a  deeper  hue, 
And  the  fountain  flows  forever, 
Forever  it  seeks  the  river 
That  leads  to  the  ocean  blue. 


126  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

It  thrills  to  the  morning's  laughter, 
To  splendor  that  follows  after, 
When  fire-flies  dart  and  flame. 
The  flowers  are  so  red,  so  golden, 
They  grow  as  in  centuries  olden, 
Before  the  white  man  came. 

And  dancing  around  the  waters 

I  fancy  I  see  the  daughters 

And  sons  of  the  Indian  race 

In  the  light  where  the  waters  sparkle, 

Where  pebbles  gleam  and  darkle, 

They  gather  from  every  place. 

They  toil  over  plain  and  hollow 
Where  only  the  strong  can  follow ; 
They  frolic  on  hill  and  slope. 
In  deep  ravines  and  narrow 
They  hunt  with  the  bow  and  arrow 
The  deer  and  the  antelope. 

But  no  one  has  told  their  story 
In  song  or  in  oratory, 
Or  fashioned  a  deathless  gem. 
The  spear-head,  the  broken  arrow 
Upturned  by  the  plow  or  harrow 
Is  all  that  reminds  of  them. 


OTHER  POEMS  OE  THE  PLAINS  127 

And  race  after  race  shall  follow 
To  toil  over  plain  and  hollow 
Through  wondrous  eternity. 
And  the  fountain  flows  forever, 
Forever  it  seeks  the  river 
That  leads  to  the  open  sea. 


128  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

A  SOLDIER'S  LOVE. 

The  evening  comes,  the  waterfowls  are  trailing 

A  path  in  heaven  over  lake  and  stream, 

From  far  away  the  ships  are  homeward  sailing, 

They  seek  the  sheltered  harbor  of  their  dreams. 

And  here  and  there  a  cottage-light  is  beaming 

A  spirit  soars  upon  the  wings  of  song. 

My  fancy  pictures  'mid  the  glow  and  gleaming 

A  dream  of  love  where  sacred  memories  throng. 

A  dream  of  love,  how  sweet  the  words  are  falling 
Upon  my  ears,  a  dream  of  home  and  you, 
With  peace  and  joy  and  children's  voices  calling, 
And  over  all  a  heaven  arching  blue. 
O  I  remember  on  the  day  we  parted 
You  smiled  so  bravely  when  you  said,  "Good-bye." 
You  smiled  and  hid  the  tears  that  almost  started, 
Till  we  were  gone,  and  then  you  had  your  cry. 

You  should  have  seen  us  marching  into  Paris, 
We  who  had  come  across  the  ocean  deep, 
The  last  reserves  against  the  foe  who  carries 
The  flag  of  ruin  where  his  armies  sweep. 
O  what  a  sight  it  was!  the  poor,  down-trodden, 
The  children  rescued  from  the  dangers  near. 
You  would  have  liked  it,  you  were  born  to  gladden 
The  hearts  of  all  with  sympathy  and  cheer. 


"  OTHER  POEMS  OE  THE  PLAINS  129 

You  should  have  seen  the  pure  Madonna-faces, 

The  art  that  held  the  centuries  of  thought. 

You  should  have  wandered  through  the  classic  places 

And  seen  the  gardens  to  perfection  brought. 

I  know  a  garden  on  the  rolling  prairie, 

I  know  the  birds,  the  trees,  the  flowers  bright. 

Beside  the  gate  a  bush  of  elderberry 

Stands  like  a  bride  dressed  in  a  robe  of  white. 

And  you  are  there,  all  radiant  and  tender, 
Fair  as   a  morning  by   the   sunlight  blessed. 
Your  soft  brown  hair  a  crown  of  royal  splendor ; 
Above  your  heart  the  cross  of  service  pressed. 
The  beacon-lights  that  you  have  lit  and  tended 
Are  shining  brightly  o'er  the  ocean  blue. 
God  bless  the  land,  the  homes  we  have  defended 
And  bring  me  back  victorious  to  you. 


130  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

THE  SOLDIER'S  FAREWELL. 

In  the  shade  and  the  cover 
Of  cottonwoods  tall, 
Where  quails  in  the  clover 
Are  piping  their  call, 
The  lovers  wander; 
They  whisper  of  things 
That  a  parting  brings, 
They  dream  and  they  ponder. 

Around  them  the  shadows 

Of  evening  descend, 
The  groves  and  the  meadows 

In   fantasy  blend 
'Mid  the  glow  and  the  glimmer, 

So  still  is  the  night, 

The  auto's  quick  light 
Grows  dimmer  and  dimmer. 

Pale,  pale  are  the  lilies 

And  heavy  with  dew, 

And  down  where  the  rill  is 
The  waters  are  blue. 

But  shadowy,  broken, 
How  soon  it  is  past 
The  farewell,  the  last, 

So  tenderly  spoken. 


131 


A  moment  she  lingers 

In  silence  alone; 
The  strong,  manly  fingers 

Have   slipped  from  her  own. 
But  a  sanctified  beauty, 

A  meaning  profound 

Illumines  the  round 
Of  her  household  duty. 

O'er  cooking  and  baking 

A  fantasy  falls, 
A  world  in  the  making 

Her  spirit  enthralls. 
She  lives  with  the  nation 

Of  brave  Lafayette, 

Where  armies  have  met 
In  battle  formation. 

• 
Ablaze  is  the  valley, 

The  city,  the  town. 
From  highway  and  alley 

The  women  come  down. 
With  little  ones  crying; 

The  grief  and  despair 

Of  battle  are  there, 
The  dead  and  the  dying. 


132  THE  OLD  SANTA  Fs  TRAIL  AND 

See!  ships  on  the  ocean! 

The  troops  are  in  sight! 
She  fills  with  emotion, 

She  thrills  with  delight. 
The  flags  they're  bearing 

Now  leap  into  view. 

O,  the  red,  white  and  blue! 
The  true  and  the  daring. 

They  come  and  they  carry 
The  hope  and  the  youth 

Of  the  billowy  prairie; 

The  freedom,  the  truth, 

Of  the  towering  Sierras, 

O,  they  land  and  advance 
Where  the  trenches  of  France 

Rise,  terrace  on  terrace. 

» 

When  they  charge  up  the  burning 
The  shell-battered  height 

Their  love  and  their  yearning 
For  freedom  and  right 

Shall  shine  in  their  glory. 

They  bring  from  the  West 
The  bravest,  the  best, 

To  the  Orient  hoary. 


OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS  133 

Here,  far  from  the  battle, 

By  highway  and  gate, 
The  horses,  the  cattle, 

Their   masters   await 
With  something  like  sorrow, 

And  people  pass  on, 

Each  seeking  the  dawn, 
A  brighter  tomorrow. 

And  oft  when  the  shadows 

Of  evening  descend, 
When  the  groves  and  meadows 

In  fantasy  blend 
By   cottage   and   river, 

The  voices  of  light, 

The  winds  of  the  night, 
Thru  cottonwoods  quiver. 

They  whisper  so  gladly 

A  message  of  cheer, 
They  whisper  so  sadly 

When  battles  are  near, 
To  sweethearts  and  mothers 

They  tell  of  the  love, 

The  secret  of  love, 
To  suffer  for  others. 


134  THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL  AND 

OH!  LORD  FORGIVE  THEM  ALL. 

Givenchy  village  lies  a  wreck, 

Givenchy  church  is  bare, 

No  more  the  peasant  maidens 

Come  to  say  their  vespers  there. 

The  altar-rails  are  wrenched  apart 

With  rubbish  littered  o'er. 

The  sacred  sanctuary  lamp 

Lies  broken  on  the  floor, 

And  mute  upon  the  crucifix 

He  looks  upon  it  all — 

The  great  white  Christ,  the  shrapnel  scourged 

Upon  the  eastern  wall. 

He  sees  the  churchyard  delved  by  shells, 

The  tombstones  flung  about, 

And  dead  men's  skulls, 

And  white,  white  bones 

The  shells  have  shoveled  out, 

The  trenches  running  line  by  line 

Thru  meadow  fields  of  green — 

Mute,  mute  He  hangs 

Upon  His  cross 

The  symbol  of  His  pain 

And  as  men  scourged  Him  long  ago, 

They  scourge  Him  once  again 

There  in  the  lonely  war-lit  night 

To  Christ  the  Lord  I  call,— 

Forgive  the  men  who  work  Thee  harm, 

O  Lord  forgive  them  all. 


OTHER  POEMS  of  THE  PLAINS  135 

TO  THE  RESCUE. 

Onward  Christians  to  the  rescue, 

Wherefor  stand  ye  idly  by? 

Hear  ye  not  the  sound  of  conflict? 

Hear  ye  not  the  battle  cry? 

Tis  your  Master  who  is  calling, 

Hasten  for  the  help  is  late, 

'Tis  your  brothers   who  are  falling, 

Dying  for  the  Christian  faith. 

Chorus : 

Onward  Christians  to  the  rescue, 

Wherefor  stand  ye  idly  by? 

Onward,  onward  Christians  to  the  rescue 

Wherefor,  wherefor  stand  ye  idly  by, 

Hear  ye  not  the  sound  of  conflict  ? 

Hear  ye  not  the  battle  cry? 

Hear  ye,  hear  ye  not  the  sound  of  conflict? 

Hear  ye  not  the  battle  cry? 

Not  to  take  a  mighty  city 

In  the  battle's  deadly  glare, 

But  with  hope  and  love  and  pity, 

To  your  brothers  in  despair, 

O'  ye  parents  tender  hearted, 

With  the  loved  ones  round  your  hearth, 

Think  of  those  who  now  are  parted 

From  the  ones  they  love  on  earth. 


136  THE  OLD  SANTA  F£  TRAIL,  AND 

Think  of  those  by  mis'ry  driven, 
Where  the  heathen  banners  wave, 
Hear  the  cry  that  goes  to  Heaven, 
Where  no  help  is  near  to  save. 
Tis  a  cry  that  must  be  heeded 
By  the  Christians  ev'rywhere, 
O,  your  help  is  sorely  needed, 
Give  it  with  your  love  and  prayer. 


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JUL  3  1  1953| 


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3521 
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